Quiet Servants

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)

Debi Irene Wahl

My grandmother was Irish. She loved to sing the poignant songs of her ancestors. Unfortunately, she sounded more like the wailing of a badly played set of bagpipes. I can hear, as though she was still with us, her nasal version of Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms. If she was deep in thought, baking one of her famous apple pies in the kitchen, often the words turned into something like leaning, neenee, safe and secure from all la laās. It didn't matter, the Lord knew she was praising.

She had a heart for Jesus. Grandmom worked at a rescue mission. Her job was to keep the sales room clean and free of debris and pesky rodents. She was the only clerk to serve those who came to the store to buy inexpensive clothing and other items. The money helped the men who stayed at the mission as they worked through bouts of alcoholism and depression.

Several times a month, my mom would drop me off to spend the day with my grandmother. While she worked, I would rifle, hanging upside down, through the large bins that were filled with books and magazines.

On a good day, I could score a Nancy Drew or, scandalous thought, a Harlequin. Grandmom would take her small, golden coin purse from the pocket of her housedress and put money into the register for my books. At the selfish age of 13 I didn't ask if I had to pay, just knew it was taken care of by this life weary, quiet servant of God.

And Grandmom's faith was quiet, warm, gentle, always available. She saw Jesus in every poor soul that came through the mission doors. She had no time for gossip and even less time for those that enjoyed spreading the joyless words.

And she gave. With dollars saved from long hours, she would turn around to put those same dollars back into the mission and purchase thick blankets, quilts and other items that the missionaries requested in their letters home.

I once tossed a worn and faded quilt into a box she was filling for one of our missionaries.

"Not that one." She scolded.

"Why not?" I wondered aloud. "They"re just missionaries."

"Yes, they are missionaries, doing God's work in a foreign country, struggling to make ends meet and we will not give less than our best."

At the time I didn't see why it mattered. But I knew that filling the box was required before we could share a Coney-Island style hamburger. I did what she told me to do. Many years later, I was privileged to meet one of these dear servants and after hearing how much they treasured the arrival of the boxes, I was glad Grandmom had taught me well.

She never sat in dinner at the White House, but cooked food for the broken men at the mission.

She never made any headlines, just a short obituary on her passing.

And she never had more than a few dollars at any given time, but she gave to the Lord as much as the widow of old.

She was a quiet servant, Irene Yeakley, for sure and for faith. I hope that as her namesake, I will be just like her.