At eighty-five, Mrs. Alice is still a straight, sharp woman who knows her own mind and will gladly give you a piece of it.
“I’m not particular,” she said. “It’s just that there’s a right way for doing things.”
She was a missionary doctor and itinerant preacher’s wife to the Yoruba tribe in Nigeria, and I was beginning to think she might have written his sermons. Not being sure where I stood with the Lord (having only known me a few hours) she found occasion to preach and it was stirring. Mrs. Alice does not hide anything under a bushel. We walked slowly through the beautiful house, richly furnished from the accumulation of a fascinating life.
“This is the only pagan trinket we kept,” she said, handing me a bronze band from Egypt, used by royal daughters to keep their arms narrow. I slipped it over mine. “You know, we had a fire one night, Keith and me, and we gathered all the idols we’d bought and burned them.” Thirty years later, I could still see the light dancing in her eyes from the thrill of burning a false god.
She walked me through the house chores and then laid out her last sewing project, long untouched and we finished it, her words guiding my hands through the pinning and pressing. It was becoming obvious that there would be no shortage of things for us to do together every Monday. She had plenty of ideas stored up, and a heap of stories to tell. After a lunch of cucumber sandwiches, we sat down and she told me all about her medical problems, from arthritis twisting her hands, to heart arrhythmia, the only thing brazen enough to really threaten her plans.
“It almost killed me once, before I knew how to apprehend it. I was laying on a table in the hospital. The young doctor stood over me and said that if my heart stopped, he had a fancy machine called a converter that would restart it and save my life. I told him, I said: Listen, honey, I’m a good Baptist. I’ve been converted, but I don’t mind being converted again.”
We laughed together, but then she added in all seriousness, “I do hope he went home and thought about that.” Between Mrs. Alice and the doctor, I’m not sure who was more concerned about the other’s heart.
I was coming home from a wedding up river, passing through Mt. Carmel, making plans to get lost one day on those old Huguenot roads, when I got the call to come say goodbye to Mrs. Alice. I hadn’t counted on saying goodbye to her anytime soon. The idea was for Mrs. Alice and I to learn each other well, so I could go to her when she was feeble, but the Lord outmaneuvered us all. Mrs. Alice didn’t get feeble.
I crossed the river into Georgia, all knotted up inside. Sometimes that hospital feels like my nucleus. I was born there and keep going back, like a boomerang. Perhaps the force with which I leave sends me flying in, sooner or later.
There was a Nigerian man in the waiting room. I knew him from her stories: her son, she called him, though he first came into her house as Help, like me.
“I wore my best shirt for her,” he said, smiling.
“Yes. I started wearing makeup, working for her.” I figured I needed all the help I could get.
Mrs. Alice was not a snob, but she had a keen compassion and penetrating eye. She would look you up and down and consider you. She would consider your intellect, your upbringing, your waistline, and your ideal spouse. She would consider your needs. But mostly she would consider your heart and tell you about hers, for she was convinced there was something in them just alike.
They say it’s better to go quickly. I don’t know about that. They say we shouldn’t mourn a woman who lived almost a century. I can’t say that either. But what I know is that Mrs. Alice cannot be found on this earth anymore, because God has taken her, and before she was taken, she had this testimony: that she pleased him.