Opening the Door

 

I believe that when we are born our personalities are baked in. I didn't learn this until I had children of my own and had the opportunity to observe firsthand how different two boy children could be. Yes, nuture has a role, but by and large, who we are is part of the package that includes our hair color, our freckles, and our taste or distaste for cilantro. 

That is to say my sister was decidedly herself and I was decidedly myself. Not two peas in a pod,  more like a pea and butterbean: same family, different look, different taste.  As a sister nine years younger,   I positioned her firmly on a pedistal. She was so many things to admire: valedictorian of her class, an excellent piano player, an equestrian, an amazing cook, and an a compassionate nurse. 

As time went by I also realized that she was also relentlessly independant, self-determined, and though she'd hate me saying it, very spicy. By which I mean she did not suffer fools gladly, thought tact overrated, and nurtured a grudge like a mama bear guarding her babies. 

Life was not easy for her and she was most comfortable in the privacy of her home, hidden a mile off the main road, tucked away on my mom's farm. She wrestled with migraines from an early age, tragically lost her first husband, and ultimately became physically disabled due to a rapid twisting of her spine. And with each of these challenges, she seemed to withdraw more from the little town that raised her. And the church she grew up in. And God. 

But here's the thing - 

God finds a way. 

One day, two Morman missionaries (more accurately members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) drove down a long, winding farm path and knocked on the door of a rustic log cabin. My sister did the unthinkable. 

She let them in. 

And slowly and surely she became reacquainted with God. Though it raised a few eyebrows from our local Baptists and Methodists, and I'm sure caused some chatter at the Post Office, those of us closer to her watched curiously as she transformed. She eschewed alcohol, started reading her Bible AND her Book of Mormon, daily. When she was able, she worshiped at the stake house in Roanoke Rapids. She played the piano for the Women's Relief Society. And finally, she made it official. She was baptized into the faith. 

God had placed two Mormons in my life prior to that time. One was my comp sci college buddy, Jeff. The other was Diana, a fellow PTA mom.  I her loved immediately for her quick wit and her devotion to her family, church, and friends. (We ran awesome book fairs, if I say so myself.) Miraculously, these two people,  whom I met in different periods of my life, were actually brother and sister. So I learned about Mormon missionaries from Jeff  and had many heart to hearts with Diana about her faith, even visiting the local temple with her when it was open to the public. I did a deep dive into the history and beliefs of Mormons because I found it fascinating. I respected what they had going on. 

So when my sister began what everyone thought would be a dalliance with the Mormon Church, I was already locked and loaded with book learning and first hand witness. I had an inkling that this might be the way God got back in. 

Her fellow congregants showed love to her in so many ways, so many ways we can all learn from. They welcomed her warmly at worship. They visited her regularly, despite how muddy that farm path could get. Visiting teachers studied scipture with her. She was always given an opportunity to serve the church, even if it meant service that could be done from the comfort of her easy chair. She loved the opportunity to host and provide for visiting missionaries. (Hospitality y'all - it's a gift of the Spirit.) And especially, especially important was the laying on of hands/blessings done for her by the Priesthood when she was suffering physically and/or in the hospital. 

As a reminder to all other congregations: they welcomed her, they nourished her spirit, they encouraged her gifts, they reassured her she was a beloved child of God. They saw the good in her.  And in her final days, they visited her at Duke Hospital, where she lay dying, and laid hands on and blessed her in her greatest hour of need.  And then, the most powerful witness of all, they prepared her body for burial. Put simply, they loved her. Take note. 

I'm so grateful my sister died in relationship with God. Her faith gave her comfort on her bad days and  increased her joy on the good ones. It's easy to see that though we may shut God out, He never forgets us, never gives up on us, and meets us where we are for He is the ultimate loving Father. 

As I sat in worship in my church this morning and listened to our pastor preach on the fishes and the loaves it reminded me how God can make things happen in the most unexpected ways. In my sister's case that unexpected way was through the visit of two young Mormans. All my sister had to do was open the door. 

Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends. Revelation 3:20 (NLT)