He Knocks at the Door

Who is a stranger? Who is a sister? It is the Lord who makes sisters Mark 3:35 tells us: “For whoever does the will of God, he is My brother and sister and mother.”

This is the unlikely story of two strangers who were next-door neighbors for more than 20 years and how we became sisters. Alice Senogles was my longtime next-door neighbor. She preferred to be called Sis and I could never have known how blessed I would be by the import of her affectionate nickname.

The difficulty was that Sis was an habitual recluse. Often she would not speak to me for great gaps of time. She would cut-off a budding connection anytime that I noticed her starting to become at all close. She lived alone for all those years that I knew her. I only learned little pieces of her story when the tiny flicker of the light of hope in her heart would accept me in for a while.

She grew-up in a convent in England. She was a British World War II bride who became a widow in 1984. She had one daughter and a son-in-law who lived a couple of hours away up the coast from La Jolla. They only came to visit briefly for a short reunion each Christmas day. It was all that Sis could handle. I would see them arrive and leave uncomfortably within two hours or so.

Always upon my heart for her was Psalm 147:3: “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” For me her broken heartedness came right to the surface in her big beautiful brown eyes, a place at which she was usually so skillful in hiding it. She and I both knew that I saw it. It was this deeper knowing that gave me the staccato access to this lonely woman who chose the familial name of Sis over her actual name. This was a sister who still distantly wanted to trust in a family.

Her way of shutting me out would often be hurtful with the accusation of some untruth that she would design. I would spend months unable to see her and would pray over her entry doorway that would appear to me like the overgrown and shrouded hatchway in the picture above--once more closed and dark to me for an unknown period. And again a note would be put under our door telling me that she no longer wanted to spend time together. Sis was again bunkered-away in her bleak loneliness.

It would have been so easy to reject her. She rarely came out except in the very early mornings to get a few meager supplies at the grocery store that is a block away. She had alienated our other neighbors with negativity, or with outright verbal anger. I knew that she regularly did her strengthening exercises at sunrise in her bedroom, but other than this I never knew her to take advantage of a walk to the majestic ocean that is just two blocks away from where we live.

When Sis reached the decade of her eighties she stopped taking a cab and refused any help to make her doctor and dentist appointments. More regularly in the small doorway conversations that we had she complained of deep back pain. Within months her physical condition deteriorated to the point that we were able to convince her to accept the service of Meals on Wheels.

Amazingly, for one whose door was so regularly sealed against the world, she left the door open for the people bringing the meals. She would be seated so properly at a well-set table awaiting the delivery. I had much more regular access during this time, and she would allow me to go to the store for her, always paying me to the exact penny of the bill. It was evident that the pain was becoming such a torment that even one so stalwart as Sis could not conceal it any longer.

An afternoon came in which I found her in an utterly dismal condition. I asked her if this wasn’t the time that we should make a phone call to her daughter. I will never forget the starkness of the words she delivered: “Debbie, my daughter died in the last year.” I couldn’t imagine the profound loss and abject isolation that this brought to Sis. My sorrows hit a new low for my friend as I saw her unable to care for herself in her extreme pain, and so very alone, and still resolutely opposed to help.

Shortly after this exchange during the summer of 2003 I returned home from a short bike ride, and was told that an ambulance had come and taken my friend away. I found out that her caring son-in-law, in the midst of his own grief, had come to check on Sis, and determined that she must go into a nursing home. He gave us the address of the facility, took care of her few things over the next days, and gave me a check that Sis wanted me to have for some last shopping I had done for her.

I was longing to see her, but had a respiratory infection that I knew should not be carried into the clinic. After two days my condition improved, and also the pressure to see her was so strong due to a belief that I may not have many more chances. I did not know what to expect, the medical staff on the phone just gave me her room number and said to come ahead quickly.

Late on the third night of her admission I found her alone in the sterile little dimly lit room. The nursing home was quiet, almost settled-in for the evening. I didn’t talk with anyone on the staff, but went right to her room. I had never seen such agitated agony. Sis was so thin, and rocking to the harsh sounds of her own moaning. Her eyes were sealed shut, but she knew I was there.

Because of her years in the convent, I knew that she would have heard the comfort that could be found in the poetry of the Psalms. I tried reading the ones with the sweetest soothing, the kindest promises, and the deepest assurances. They did not touch her pain in the least and perhaps they were even intensifying it. The rhythm of her horrible groaning made me feel a chilling panic that I would not be able to help her. I tried to cool her brow. She would not rest even for a calming touch. I was at the deepest place over the fear and sorrow that I felt for her

It had to be the Holy Spirit who told me to ask her if she wanted to receive Jesus as her Savior. My first thought was about whether or not she could still understand a complete English sentence. I asked the question and the heavenly silence that filled the room was swift and surrounded us in grace. She sat up--no rocking. She put her face close to mine--certainly a Herculean move for her. And with lips that could no longer form words and with eyes that could not open she shook her head in a way that said yes, as she said: “UMMMM HUM!” She was so close to my face that I will always be blessed by her valiant passion.

She rested back on her bed.As I spoke the simple phrases I paused after each sentence. She nodded affirmatively with a sound of blessed relief with each stop:

“Lord Jesus, I’m a sinner.

Please come into my life

And forgive me of all my sin.

I believe You died for my sins on the Cross

And that You rose from the dead.

Now fill me with Your Holy Spirit

And guide me from this day forward.

Thank you, Lord, for loving me!

Amen.”

Her eyes never opened, but the former terror was replaced with the sweetest modulated rocking and a sound that still evidenced the pain but it was now one of receiving comfort. I stood there astounded, kissed her on the forehead, said a prayer over her and me, and left with such a rarefied giftedness. Again, I never spoke to any staff or resident of the hospital.

I prayed for Sis often after arriving home that night. I asked that the Lover of her Soul would embrace her into her home-going with Him. The next morning I called the nursing home and asked about the condition of Alice Senogles. They told me that my friend had passed away sometime during the night. I couldn’t believe how the Lord had placed the urgency upon my heart for this divine timing. I cried in grief and smiled in joy to know that she would never be alone again and that I would have Sis eternally as my Sister.

The story of the blessing of my dear Sis does not end here! One evening a month or so after she died, I was feeling very sad as I thought of all we could share if I still had her next-door right now. I was feeling deeply the suddenness of the loss of a loved-one.

The phone in the room was on silent, but I still noticed from the lights that there was a caller just as I was about to break into tears. It is an old landline that we rarely ever answer just expecting it to be someone selling something. I didn’t recognize the number and uncharacteristically I picked up the receiver. The voice said:

“This is Hospice and we are calling to see how you are doing over the loss of your friend.” I couldn’t believe what I heard as it met my grief. I asked how they knew about me and my friendship with Sis. I told them that there had been no sign-in, nor any contact that night at the hospital, and that she had no family or friends left that I could commiserate with. I said that I was very sad over losing her. How could they have known about me? Their answer delivered a remarkable blessing to me from my dear Sister! “You were the only person in her address book!”

It will be such a celebration day when we meet again heavenside, sweet Sister of my heart! The address that you are now at is filled with friends who can never hurt you, nor leave you. And you are loved so deeply by the Lord who will always go looking for His one lost little lamb. Thank-you, Lord, for placing us both in Your eternal address book--The Lamb’s Book of Life!

A Hymn of Friendship

They regularly come to the park that I frequent at sunset—this group of young bright women. They always bring their gaiety to overflow to the others in the little seaside place. They come to do some stretches, and yoga poses, but mostly they seem to come for the joy of sharing in a moment of refreshment with friends who have made it a priority to make a statement to one another about how vital they are to a life of buoyancy during all of the other times. They may have a lot in common, and they may also be quite different in their life places, but they come in the garb of play, with hair tucked-up from the winds, and with the song-like sounds of sweet recognition.

Seeing them always reminds me about the impact of fellowship upon our spiritual health--about how the face of a friend is far better than any prescription that could ever be written. In one of Paul’s New Testament letters he wrote this incredible note upon the character of his friend, saying: “For I have come to have much joy and comfort in your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you, brother.” (Philemon 7) I imagine these women having a version of this verse resonating in their hearts later in the evening when meals must be served, and responsibilities have their own and very different tune than the one by the ocean.

This kind of fellowship brings with it a depth of foundation that strengthens hearts for a new resiliency in even the most seriously demanding of times. The comfort of a friend readily brings a valiant heart because: “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” (Proverbs 17:17) The refreshment of the time by the waves brings back the rhythm of a love that inspires and surrounds us with comfort.  The renewal comes from the deepest place of knowing that a friend bears the same name as the One Who in John 15:15 called Himself our Friend.

I continue to watch them meet under the stained-glass-window light of the brilliant Pacific sunset. Their movements are praise dances to my heart. Their greetings are the most blessed celestial worship music. My soul that longs after such instruction hears their affirmations on the wind as a mighty sermon. The stretching that they do makes for the flexible knees of prayer. The awe that comes from seeing the rays of rainbow light separate as the sun goes below the horizon allows for the hush of wonder--the deeply mysterious understanding that our curious hearts can never know about it all, but can stand silently before the Creator’s beauty. And when the women stand shoulder to shoulder I think of how a friend is born both to share our joys and our sorrows in the blessed lavishing of their passion for us.

This morning two friends came and bore me away to the seaside to make the time for praise-laughter, and to be certain that we stayed attuned to the sound of each other’s lives. Their joyous faces took me to the same church that goes beyond the walls of my local sanctuary. We were by the Pacific in that place where I remembered the women singing, dancing, praying, encouraging and strengthening each other for a mighty walk in the palette of His joy over us.  There were great streams of gold in shades indescribable in an all-around embrace. This embrace reached out with muscular golden arms to every one in the park at the earth’s edge. I tucked-up my hair, made sure that I was dressed for the frolic, and was made safe by the songs of my friends and by the anthem of the Hymnmaker—the Lord Who is the Author of Friendship.