A couple of my old college classmates told me that there was an extra room on the country estate. "If you help with the property, Mrs. Downey will give you the room for free," said Jared. "And now's the right time, because a buddy of mine is moving out of her home - well, really, it's like a small mansion. Three other guys each have rooms there. If you call this number -" he handed me a slip of paper - "you can get first rights on the room."
I called the number and was greeted by a kind, elderly voice. Mrs. Downey was more than happy to have someone take the room. Having grown up in a rural town, I was fairly familiar with farm chores, so I moved into the basement room and would care for her horse, two cows and twenty-five acres of pastureland. For free rent. Nice.
So it seemed.
I was unpacking my stuff and carrying it through the basement door when the departing student bumped into me. "It's a huge place," he said. "She even has an elevator inside."
"You're kidding," I said.
"But you need to know something," he warned as he packed his car. "The reason I'm leaving is that she's a nut case." He looked me in the eye. "I've been accused of stealing, crawling on the roof and even bowling in the upstairs hallway." He tapped his forehead. "She's losing it, and I'm not going to be around on the day she snaps, free rent or not." He left and I pondered my new situation.
To make a long story short, it was true. Almost every night I would hear the brrrrrp of the old elevator coming down to the basement and would then have to explain myself.
No, Mrs. Downey, I wasn't bouncing a basketball down here.
No, Mrs. Downey, I didn't take all the ketchup.
No, Mrs. Downey, I wasn't trying to sneak a girl into my room.
No, Mrs. Downey, I wasn't climbing the magnolia tree last night at 2 a.m.
I had just about had it with this little 78 year old woman who stood inches below five feet tall. She wandered the house, cutting glares at us each evening while complaining that she needed our protection to watch the estate. She ate alone and she muttered about the inequities of the War Between the States. I am not making this up.
I was enduring this odd lifestyle, mainly because I needd to save money, but in truth, I was tiring of it quickly. I enjoyed taking care of the farmland and caring for the animals, but in truth, I found them much more pleasant than I did the sour-faced Mrs. Downey.
Then one cold, raw evening I happened to be carrying some farm tools to the back porch when I saw friends pull up to the front of the mansion. Mrs. Downey had some neighbors and a family member arrive for coffee. I stepped inside to return a broom and I noticed the small party was uneasy. The heating had not caught up to the quick temperature drop. The main room was cold, and nobody knew how to start the fire in the fireplace. Mrs. Downey was crestfallen. She was appearing to be a poor hostess, and in her world, that was worse than profanity.
I did the only thing I knew to do. "Here,"I said briskly. "That's my job. I see I made it just in time." The group looked at me while Mrs. Downey's eyes grew wide with surprise. I didn't wait for a comment, but ran out into the yard and grabbed as many branches as I could find.
For some reason, I have always been able to make a good crackling fire. Other people play a Steinway or run a four minute mile. I can handle an Ohio Blue Tip match with a bit of a talent, I humbly admit. Within three minutes I had a strong, warming fire blazing in the hearth and throwing out much-needed heat. The guests smiled and I nodded, but as I left to go feed the cows, I saw Mrs. Downey's eyes.
She was grateful.
Grateful.
What resulted was a fine and unusual friendship between this elderly widow and myself for the final three months until the end of the year when I was called into a new ministry elsewhere in the country. Mrs. Downey and I would sit at her messy kitchen table and watch a miniscule black and white TV while sipping instant coffee from old ceramic mugs or dining on leftover macaroni on mismatched plates. She shared her concerns for her family and her daughter's history of illnesses. She chatted about many things - maybe some day I will tell you about them - but above all she opened up to me, a 23 year-old college grad between jobs.
I learned the deep and yet delicate power found in Colossians 3:12:
"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience."
I never saw Mrs. Downey again. That was 26 years ago. I still remember, though, the door of friendship opened when I saw that someone had an estate that needed repair and a little love.
And I'm not talking about the house.
