Pray It Forward

Pray It Forward

I’d passed her before. In the fiercest of elements, I had driven right passed the elderly woman carrying a sack of groceries bigger than she was. I’d always wanted to stop, but somehow an excuse always presented itself: the Jeep (which my husband treats like a work truck) was too dirty; the passenger’s side was chock-full of groceries; I didn’t have enough time; perhaps I would scare her and make her have a heart attack; perhaps she enjoyed the exercise; I didn’t want to make her feel as old or feeble as she looked.

As I drove passed the elderly woman for the umpteenth time, I suddenly knew this day was different, although the convenience level certainly was not. I was on my way to Nashville to meet my best friend for her birthday, and — as always — I hadn’t given myself much time to spare. Still, I felt compelled. Part of it was the thick pink blazer the elderly woman wore that made me sweat just out of compassion. Part of it was the worn old shoes that made her shuffle along. Part of it was the curvature of her spine that caused the woman’s hoary head to jut from her shoulders like a bird’s. All of these things made me crank the wheel and turn back, but another reason was the challenge I’d felt while reading a book called, Praying for Strangers.

River Jordan, author of this spiritual memoir, is one of the busiest, most productive people I have ever known. Despite this, on New Year’s Eve 2009, as her sons prepared to march off to war, she decided to make a resolution that focused on others rather than herself: she would pray for a stranger every single day of the following year. Not only was this adding another “to-do” to her already lengthy list, it was also stepping out of her comfort zone. River is a self-proclaimed introvert (although she is so warm, I do not believe her), and the “strangers” that stood out to her the most were usually those that required the crossing of some physical or social boundary: waitresses, nurses, maids, soldiers, teenagers, misfits, mechanics….

Over the course of 365 days, River shared her resolution with these people and told them that she would say a prayer for them that evening. That was all. She didn’t lay hands on them in the middle of a grocery store; she didn’t offer money, fame or even a bookmark. But these people were so deeply touched that a stranger had scaled some propriety chasm to reach them that they often threw their arms around her or just murmured, “Thank you,” while tears glimmered in their eyes.

After reading one especially inspiring encounter between River and her stranger of the day, I thought, Why can’t I do this? I’m about an introverted as a golden retriever. I could tell somebody I’d be praying for them. Right?

When I picked up the elderly woman carrying her sack of groceries, I found out just how “easy” this whole praying for a stranger business was. First off, my old fears presented themselves. What if I offended her? What if this woman thought she was getting mugged and had a heart attack right there on the sidewalk?

So, I swerved into a hair salon parking lot and about lost my teeth to the steering wheel after sailing over a speed bump (I was too busy eyeballing my “stranger” to notice it was there). Shifting into Park, I got out and walked down the embankment, so the woman could take one look at me and know I wasn’t dangerous (I think it has something to do with the whole “introverted as a golden retriever” bit).

Shielding my eyes from the sun, I called, “Can I take you somewhere?”

The woman shrugged and said, “If’n you wont to.”

I said I did and tromped down the embankment in high heels to help her. But she didn’t need any help. Beneath her tattered pink blazer and worn old shoes was a woman soldered out of steel. I could see that in the proud set of her jaw alone. Once she’d situated herself in the Jeep and I apologized for all the dust, I did a U-turn and we headed down the road.

“There’s a dime on the floor,” she said, pointing between her shoes.

I said, “Oh, that’s okay,” but inside I was thinking, “Bless her heart. She probably doesn’t have two to rub together.”

She certainly didn’t look like she did. Her rail-thin legs were sheathed in knee highs that had more holes than nylon. Her purse was literally falling apart at the seams, and the fingers clutching it were knotted with arthritis.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“With my sister,” the woman said. “Up near the hospital.”

As we passed the charred carcass of a house that had burnt a few weeks ago, she pointed and said, “That was my house.”

“That was yours?” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Were you able to salvage anything?”

“There was a washer and dryer on the front porch, but somebody musta stole them, ’cause they ain’t there no more.”

Indeed, they weren’t, but I couldn’t imagine they would have survived the fire anyway.

“What’s your name?” I asked as we drove passed the hospital.

The woman straightened up in the passenger’s seat and proudly said, “Avis. Avis Montgomery.”

“Avis,” I repeated. “You don’t hear that name too often. I like it.”

Smiling a little, Avis asked what mine was. I told her and she just looked confused.

I dryly said, “Yeah, guess you don’t hear ‘Jolina’ too often, either.”

Pulling up outside her sister’s house that was smaller than most lean-tos, I tried to think how I could give this proud woman money without offending her, then I tried to think how I could tell her I’d be keeping her in my prayers.

Before I got the chance to, she started witnessing to me.

“You saved?” Avis asked through narrowed rheumy eyes. “You go to church? You need to come to my church. The Church a God and Prophecy over in Hilham.”

I just nodded and nodded again. Once she’d gotten out of the Jeep with her sack of flour and shabby purse, I was so taken aback by this tiny spitfire of a woman that I just bid her good day and drove down the hill.

I was at the hospital when I turned around. Parking in front of the lean-to house again, I got some money out of my wallet, walked up to the door and knocked.

The overweight woman chain smoking in the car parked in front of mine hollered, “Ya need to knock on the door! Not the storm door, honey!”

I thought about asking this woman if she was Avis’s relation and if so, how come she wasn’t taking her to the grocery store two miles down the road, but I refrained and just waved my thanks.

Avis answered the door on the first “real” knock. The house smelled like Thanksgiving. Wiping her hands on a dishcloth, Avis smiled and said, “Well, come on in!”

I said, “No…no thank you, Avis. I just wanted to drop this off.” I passed her the bill. “I know it’s not much, but with your house burning down and all, I thought every little bit might help.”

“Why, you don’t hafta do that!” Avis exclaimed. “I’m gonna get some insurance money.”

“I know you will, but this’ll help tide you over until then.”

Avis’s eyes didn’t exactly fill with tears and she didn’t throw her arms around me, but she did keep saying, “God bless you! God bless you!” like it was a litany.

As she closed the door and I walked down the crumbling sidewalk back toward my vehicle, I realized that I’d been her stranger of the day more than she’d been mine and whispered, “Avis Montgomery, He already has.”



Information about River Jordan’s Praying For Strangers Nashville book launch can be found here.

Purchasing information for PTS can be found here.

That big, beautiful dog she’s holding is a Great Pyrenees. They can be found here.

Thanks for reading!

Best,
Jolina