She was wonderful to visit...always upbeat, cheerful, positive, even though she was now almost totally home-bound.
We had been in the same ward; had two boys the same ages. We saw each other at church, Scout meetings, ward activities. I enjoyed her friendship.
Then, even though neither of us moved, we were put in different wards and different stakes. Our lives went on. Our boys grew up..we had grandchildren. I rarely saw her.
A friend from her neighborhood told me she was homebound. I started going to see her. We talked about books, our children, our grandchildren, her husband - who had died much too young.
Sometimes I'd drive over during my 29 minute lunch break from school - not often - but sometimes. I'd take her a book and say, "See if you like this book." Then we'd talk about it.
I always left uplifted, encouraged, happy, brightened by Jean.
I retired. Winter set in. In Idaho winters, I turn into a different person. I hibernate. I went only to church, to the grocery store about every two weeks.
The little voice would tell me to "visit Jean."
"I will," I said, "when the ice melts, when the weather is warmer, when I don't have to drive on the icey roads, when spring comes."
We went away for the winter: we loved the sights, sounds, scenery of a warmer climate.
Returning in the spring, I thought of Jean, mentioned her one day to a friend.
"Didn't you know? She died."
And, then I remembered - the voice.
"I MUST do better," I say to myself. "I must listen to the VOICE."
Because, I don't like remembering that I didn't visit Jean.
1 comment:
Oh how I can relate to this post. Over the years I always wanted to make contact with my 4th grade art teacher, Miss Natalie A. Leaf. I wanted to tell her how much she influenced my life and fostered my (and my children's) love and appreciation of art. When I finally got around to it in 1998, I found she had died in 1989.
Now I waste no time. I repent immediately, I contact those I think about daily, I say thank you at the time, I write notes of gratitude for small deeds. I don't miss a beat any longer, I learned my lesson.
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