Still So Much To Learn

@audreycfrank

She had delivered thousands of babies during the French occupation of the medieval city. When the French left, only she was permitted to stay. All other expatriates were sent away, leaving the nationals to redeem their own country once again. But the beloved English midwife was nurse, mother, and grandmother to many, and her place in the old city was secure. No one could imagine life without her, so she was allowed to remain.

By the time I arrived, Miss C was in her seventies. I was a first-time mother and new to the exotic Muslim world.

God knew I needed Miss C.

Hers was one of the first faces I saw as she welcomed me into my new home with a cup of Yorkshire Tea and a faded, well-read copy of the book of John in French. “Shall we read the words of life to strengthen our souls?” she asked. The birds flitted and sang on the ornate iron window dressings as we had that first chat. I knew even then that this woman would deeply impact my life forever.

Our houses were only a ten-minute walk from each other. I dropped in often, calling her name as I wound my way through her enchanting garden to the intricately carved wooden doors. Popping her head over the upstairs balcony, she always welcomed me the same way, “Up here, darling.”

We would tuck into our cups of tea and friendship and she would tell me stories. She did not consider it our story time, but I did. I was like a child at the feet of her mother, listening with rapt attention to the tales she told of God’s great love and power in the lives of real paupers and princes.

In the downstairs of Miss C’s house was an intriguing contraption. Tucked in the back corner of a long room, inside what was much like a closet, was a cement tub. A man or woman could stand waist high in it, and the tub was barely wide enough for two if they were standing close. It seemed the closet had been built first, and the tub built after. There was no shower head, and it did not exactly appear inviting. Who wants to take a bath standing up?

“Ah, you’ve discovered my baptistry,” she said one day as she found me staring at it. She then recounted incredible tales of people crowding into that long room in the dark of night, stretching their necks to watch as a secret believer in Christ was baptized by candlelight. The persecuted church had met in her home secretly for decades, and many of the babies she delivered were now all grown up, followers of Jesus.

As Miss C grew older, she began giving everything she had away. I came by more often to make sure she was eating and caring for herself. One morning as I went to fetch a cardigan for her, I found her wardrobe completely bare.

“Miss C, where is your white cardigan? Where are your other clothes?”

“Selma needed them. I gave them to her. I can make do,” she replied.

“Well, at least keep something for yourself to stay warm on these chilly mornings,” I replied with a smile, knowing I could never compel her to keep anything from the ones she loved.

I began to realize our time together was coming to a close. Jesus was calling Miss C home. Her family came to visit from England and we pored over old picture albums with Miss C sitting on safari with HRH the Queen of England, receiving a special award for her outstanding and selfless service.

In the many stories she had shared with me, she had never told me about that. All worldly accolades seemed dusty and not quite real, just like the papered albums we were flipping through. Every day I had known her, Miss C’s eyes had been fixed only on the treasures she was storing in heaven. Who would have imagined she was known and lauded by the Queen herself? My friend only cared about her King.

I tried to accept that she would go with her family to England to spend her last days, but I wasn’t sure how I would cope without her. She gave me a high goal of holiness and excellence to aim for and helped me climb the heights to reach it.

On the final morning as I came to take her to the airport, Miss C took my face in both her soft hands, withered from years of serving and loving others. Sighing, she murmured in her lovely Yorkshire accent, “Darling, the Lord has me on a steep learning curve right now. I do hope I am a good pupil.”

The birdsong that was constant stopped suddenly as if her little winged friends were shocked by what she had admitted.

I stood speechless. Here I was, a young woman in my early thirties, absorbing all I could from this mighty woman of God whom I considered a pillar of wisdom and experience. If anyone knew Jesus, it was Miss C. And she was telling me, during the twilight of her earthly life, that she still had so much to learn from God.

I drove to the airport in wonder, pondering the humility of this lifelong disciple of Christ. We sang the sweet words of How Great Thou Art and Amazing Grace as the olive groves and poppies flew past in jumbled red and green splendor. My heart squeezed tight and I could barely finish each verse past the lump in my throat.

The best gift a #mentor can give is the example of a heart still learning from Jesus, no matter the age or the season. #discipleship Share on X

Her trunk sits in my living room today, her name and address hand painted on the sides with bold letters. She left home at 18 as a fresh graduate from nursing school to board a ship that would take her to the Arab world where she would spend the rest of her life storing up treasures in heaven and learning from Jesus. I had the privilege of being her friend.

I still want to be like her.

One day I will walk through another garden, heavy with the scent of Damascus roses, and call out her name. And Miss C will lean over the balcony like she always has, saying in that comforting Yorkshire lilt, “Up here, darling.”

Lord, no matter how old I am, let me never stop learning from you. May I be a good pupil. Amen.