He Was There All the Time
by
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Each day, she'd take a small bag of trash to the dumpster behind Building C. She told me about "rescuing" a lamp from the dumpster. Such a pretty lamp it was. It didn't work anymore, but it was too pretty to throw away.
I shared the story with Dad and we recoiled in mock terror at the thought of the sight of Nan, clad in her tattered flannel pajamas - which she refused to replace with one of countless new pairs that filled a dresser drawer - diving through a dumpster in search of salvageables.
There's a reason that lamp was in the dumpster - it didn't work anymore. Lamps are mass produced and are intended to wear out. If they don't, the people who make them go out of business.
People are different. Each one is unique. And each one is worth trying to save.
How fitting that the woman who spent most of her life diving into the dumpster of life's discards would find beauty and value in a cast-off lamp.
She believed with all her heart that every person God made had value and worth and could be redeemed, could be salvaged, could be made to work again. Her legacy is one of human reclamation projects, lifting up many people who had been disposed of by the noisy crowd. She never gave up on them because God never gave up on her and, knowing His love and grace, she knew that nothing is impossible.
I am living proof of someone reclaimed from life's dumpster. Only God knows for sure how many hours she prayed for me and how many prayers she offered up for my redemption, safety and salvation. And I am only one.
She gave breath to the notion that life's simple pleasures are the best ... a trip to the Tastee Freez, a walk up Walburn Run, mowing the grass, meditating each morning with Jesus, a cup of tea and a bowl of rolled oats, taking a ride through Munderf and Richardsville and all points in between to view the splendor of the autumn foliage, sitting in her rocking chair and reading her Bible then falling asleep to bask in the peace and serenity she found in her Lord, Jesus Christ .
The last ride came Sept. 21, a funeral procession to Temple Cemetery. She'd have gloried in that day ... crystal blue skies, brilliant sunshine, dazzling fall colors. And I have no doubt that she did revel in it with us, even if from afar.
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About the Book
Behind every face is a name, and every name has a story. They don’t all command headlines, but each of them matters. Their stories differ. Some are long; others are short. They move in all directions, at different speeds and intensities. Inevitably, they crisscross, intersect and collide.
“Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around, he leaves an awful hole.” Is it chance that the right people are at the right place at the right time when we need them?
Or does an unseen hand number our days and order our steps?
About the Author
His parents divorced when he was 10. He moved away from home at 14. By the time he graduated college, he was an alcoholic. As a writer and editor at a daily newspaper in Pennsylvania for 30 years, he had an inside-the-ropes view of heartbreak, sorrow and tragedy. But ask Nick Hoffman if he would alter the events in his life if he could and he’ll politely decline. Life is a journey not a destination. No matter how many twists the road has taken or how may turns remain, he hasn’t walked alone. No one does.