The Bag Lady Is My Sister

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares" (Hebrews 13:2).

She was crossing SE 15th Street in Oklahoma City. It wasn't my first time to see her. She was a common sight on South Robinson, a light industrial section of the city. The area was mostly run down rentals in those days, but there was a small park and a few well-kept homes. As always, she was pulling her red wagon and looking for treasures she could collect.

Today was different from other times when I had seen her. She was only a few city blocks from our church, coming from an area called "the flats" ("uptowners" called it the slum). Her Western Flyer wagon was filled—piled high above the small sideboards—with treasures she had picked up off the streets and out of garbage cans.

I continued slowing my car and finally brought it to a complete stop as she struggled to keep her cargo from tumbling into the street. She made it to the curb, but when she lifted the front of the wagon to the top of the curb, her treasures suddenly tumbled off into the street.

Help her!

Who? Me? Why should I?

I eased my car over to the curb and parked—still wondering about the thoughts that came rushing into my mind. Finally, I exited the car and went back to help.

She was bent over at the waist—legs straight as a fence post—picking up her lost treasures.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?" I asked.

Without straightening up, she turned her head to see who was speaking. When she smiled I saw one lonely yellowish tooth. Her skin was dark and wrinkled from overexposure to the Oklahoma weather, but it complemented her twinkling blue eyes.

Her eyes that told me I could help as she continued to retrieve her treasures. Together, we loaded her wagon with the fallen items. She never straightened up until the job was done.

When she stretched to her full height she was still a small woman—well under five feet tall. For the first time she looked me over. Her gaze passed from my carefully groomed hair, to my blue suit, down to my shined shoes. I waited for her comment, wondering if I would pass her inspection.

"You must be a preacher," she said. "Only a preacher would wear clothes like yours on a hot day like this."

I smiled, slightly amused by her observation. My thoughts whirled.

How would she know about preachers? She's a "bag lady!" Why don't I just wish her a good day and get on with my church visitation? Or, could talking to this bag lady actually be part of my church visitation?

A verse of Scripture came to mind: "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and keep himself unspotted from the world" (James 1:27). Now I was even more confused.

What is God trying to tell me? Or, is He trying to tell me anything? Is this bag lady a widow? Is she fatherless? Did she grow up as an orphan? How would Christ respond to this little woman who scoured the streets and garbage cans for her livelihood?

I introduced myself and handed her one of my business cards. She looked the card over and reached for a string tied around her neck. As she tugged at the string she remarked, "I've got another card. One from the sheriff." When she pulled the string free from her clothing I was surprised to see a small sack dangling at the end of it. She carefully removed two safety pins and pulled out the other card. It really was a personalized card from the county sheriff.

"The sheriff told me to call him if I ever needed him," she commented. "He said anytime day or night was okay."

I watched her place my card with the sheriff's card as she turned away from me. She pulled her blouse out at the neck, dropping the little sack down inside her clothing. This little bag lady was intriguing. I had to know more about her. In a strange sort of way I even felt a sense of kindred. Is she a Christian? I wondered.

"I would like to be friends with you," said. "I pastor the Central Avenue church, which is only about three or four blocks from where we are. It's the red brick building with the lighted church sign out front."

The bag lady seemed to be smiling as she drifted down memory lane. Not knowing what she was thinking, I waited for her response.

"I went to a red brick church one time. They had donuts and soup sometime." She paused momentarily, then continued. "They moved away. I don't know where. Then another church came. I went one time—no one would talk to me. I didn't go back. They moved away and someone tore the church down. Now there is no church."

"What is your name?" I inquired.

"Taylor," she replied.

I sensed a budding friendship. We were warming up to each other and talking was becoming easier for both of us.

"Do you go to church now?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

"Would you like to come to our church? We would love to have you, and we will come and get you if you need transportation."

"Yes, if I can bring my wagon. I will walk."

I recalled the words of Jesus when He came to his disciples walking upon a stormy sea, "It is I; be not afraid" (John 6:20). Is Jesus saying to me that He is dwelling in this bag lady and I am not to be afraid? A warm feeling washed over me. Is this bag lady actually my sister in Christ?

"Sure," I answered, "you may bring your wagon. I will be looking forward to seeing you soon."

With that I continued on my way, visiting others. But I could not keep the bag lady out of my mind. Will she really come to church? Where will she park her wagon? Will she bring it inside the church—perhaps down the aisle? Will she park it in someone's favorite parking space? What's the rest of her name? Where is her family—if she has one? One thing was certain; she was mysterious.

As the weeks passed I continued thinking about my encounter with the bag lady . . . and her, shall we say, odorous body. The smell that surrounded her seemed to be a mixture of sweat, armpits, and . . . well, other aromas. It made me wonder if this scent was unique to bag ladies and other people who slept on the streets, in alleys, parks, or under bridges. I smiled to myself thinking about her odor mingling with that of the colognes and perfumes worn by the people that attended our church. Nevertheless I was getting excited just imagining the difference she would make in our Sunday evening service . . . if she came.

A few days later, the people were coming in for the Sunday evening service. The parking lot was filling up, but the bag lady had not arrived. I was greeting people when I noticed our song leader and pianist making their way to the front of the church. Glancing at my watch, it was still five minutes until starting time.

I was moving toward the front when I sensed that others were coming in. Turning toward the back doors, I saw Mrs. Taylor, without her wagon, making her way down the center aisle. (I later learned she had parked her wagon outside.) The ushers had already greeted her warmly and now stood watching her slowly walk down the aisle. I went to meet her. Not knowing how to introduce her to others, I greeted her warmly and asked if she were Miss or Mrs. Taylor.

"My husband left when my Jimmy was born," she replied. "I don't know where he is and I don't care. I hope I never see him again."

I asked where she would like to sit. She chose the second row from the front—where Mrs. Peters always sat. Sister Peters was a sweet elderly lady, a full-sized woman, with a humble spirit and a heart full of love. She gladly turned a bit to allow Mrs. Taylor to take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor squeezed by Sister Peters and continued standing, gazing at the baptistery.

"That's a pretty picture on the back wall of the baptistery, isn't it?" I remarked.

"I was dunk one time," she commented, her eyes still fixed on the baptistery.

I had my answer. I would introduce her as my sister in the Lord and discover the details of her spiritual life later.

I walked to the pulpit to begin the service. The song leader was in his place, grinning so big his eyes were just slits. The pianist, leaning slightly to the left to look around the piano light, gave me a large smile. I turned to face the audience. The ushers, standing at their place at the entrance of the room, were smiling too. Even the congregation seemed unusually happy, with only a few exceptions. The ones who weren't smiling had their eyes fixed on the bag lady.

Ignoring the frowns, I greeted the congregation enthusiastically. "Tonight we have a very special blessing. I am privileged and honored to introduce to you my new friend and sister in the Lord. Please welcome Sister Taylor!"

The bag lady's eyes lit up. She stood, waving a wrinkled handkerchief at the people. She turned her head from side to side; she flashed the same smile I'd first seen on the street, exposing that same lonely yellowish tooth for all to see. Instantly, Sister Taylor won the hearts of that Sunday night congregation.

We stood and prayed, then I went to my chair and the singing began. I looked at the hymnal, but my heart wasn't singing. Somehow I sensed something different about the bag lady. What was it? My thoughts drifted back to the moment I greeted her in the center aisle. I had shaken her hand and placed my left hand on her shoulder as I directed her to the pews. What's missing? Then it hit me. The scent! I had not ever noticed the odor that was once so offensive to my super-sensitive nose.

I immediately joined the congregation in singing, The Old Time Religion. When we got to the second verse, we sang of how the old time religion "Makes me love everybody." I knew then why I hadn't noticed the odor.

After the service, I waited my turn to talk with Sister Taylor. In our short conversation I discovered that her "Jimmy" was now a grown man, living with a family of his own in Stockton, California. He stayed in touch with his mother, as best he could, encouraging her to call him collect, since she could neither read nor write. But she never did.

On more than just a few occasions, Jimmy would contact the office of the county sheriff asking them to find his mother. The sheriff took the first call personally. That explained why she had his personalized business card. At other times, it was a deputy that would check on her.

There were other questions I wanted to ask, but Sister Taylor had to leave. I watched as she pulled her red wagon down the sidewalk toward SE 15th Street. I saw two large red reflectors on the back of her wagon and felt a little better about her safety as she walked in the dark. One question did concern me—where will she sleep tonight? I thought about following her, but then it occurred to me that even a bag lady wouldn't want to be stalked, no matter what the reason.

I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, then I walked the half-block my home. A Sunday night snack, the recliner, and even the late newscast, did little to divert my thoughts from Sister Taylor. Mentally, I could not release her until I prayed for her and made plans to locate her on Monday morning.

Monday morning I drove to the area where I thought another red brick church once stood. I arrived in the area a little past 8 a.m. The neighborhood was undergoing some great change. Many buildings were completely demolished, making way for a new freeway bypass and the accompanying new commercial business that would cater to travelers.

Led by the Holy Spirit, I believe, I stopped at one well-kept house. An elderly couple greeted me at the door and with a warm welcome invited me in for coffee. Being eager for conversation about the area, I accepted.

This dear couple was eager for a visit as well, and they enjoyed talking about their home. All of their eight children grew up and attended school in that area. (The old school was now being used for some kind of social work.) They had bought the lot on which they built their house when the area first opened for development. They had lived in their dream home for years and had no intention to leave it. They planned to just leave for heaven from that very spot, just as soon as the Good Lord said it was time for them to go.

The old couple told me about the red brick church. They were once members of that congregation. They called it "The Old-time Methodist." They even had fond memories of a social time with donuts before the Sunday service and unforgettable soup suppers on Wednesday night.

They voted against the church relocating to the northwest part of Oklahoma City. When the move was made anyway, they could no longer attend, so they began going to Capitol Hill Baptist, just across the river, with friends who gave them a ride.

By now my heart was beating faster with excitement and my throat was dry. I had to ask about Sister Taylor. Did they know her, and if so, what did they know? Smiling at each other, they began their story about their acquaintance with Sister Taylor.

"Now that lady was some lady!" he said. "She had been on the streets for many years. People that tried to talk with her found her hard to understand. Her talk was more like mumbling and made little sense. She had Indian blood in her veins."

"Tell him about her coming to church," his wife interjected.

"Well," he began, "that was something else. It was on a Mother's Day when in walked this bag lady with a fine young couple from California. The funny thing was that no one recognized her in a new dress with her hair all done up nice. She even wore a corsage of three red roses. The young man introduced her as his mother, saying, 'We are the Taylor's.' She continued coming once in a while, as long as the church was there. She only came on a Sunday morning or a Wednesday night—I guess it was when she was short on food. We still see her on the streets. That's about all I can tell you."

I thanked them for their hospitality and good coffee, and started my drive back toward the church. My new friends had told me much about Sister Taylor and, perhaps unknown to them, had confirmed the things she had told me. Still, I was eager to discover more details of her life—especially her spiritual life.

On my way back to the church, I spotted Sister Taylor's red wagon at the side of a popular workingman's restaurant. This place only served breakfast and lunch. They specialized in homemade yeast rolls—all you could eat with butter, honey, or jelly. They always kept the hot bread on your table until you finished your meal, whether it was breakfast or lunch . . . my kind of place.

I had a thought. Maybe I could buy Sister Taylor lunch. I pulled into the parking lot and made my way to the restaurant entrance. Stepping inside, I looked for Sister Taylor. Someone called out to me, "Sit wherever you like!" I chose a table facing the front door, with a view into the kitchen area and back door.

To my surprise, when the backdoor opened I saw Sister Taylor headed outside. At that very moment, the waitress brought hot rolls to my table. I ordered a plate lunch, a popular vegetable plate, and excused myself, telling the waitress that I would be right back.

Rushing outside, I saw Sister Taylor pulling her wagon across the parking lot. I called to her. She was surprised to see me, and even more surprised when I invited her to lunch. She refused the invitation, however, explaining that she had already had lunch. She said she ate with the man and woman who owned the restaurant. I would learn later that she often ate with them in what they called their "private dining room"—a section of the kitchen with a table and chairs for four.

I returned to my lunch, enjoying it a bit more knowing that Sister Taylor also had a good lunch. I was excited at the prospect of having a bag lady call me, "Pastor." It would be the first, and perhaps only, time I would be a pastor to a bag lady.

I remembered the words Jesus spoke, "For ye have the poor always with you" (Matthew 26:11a). Why would I think of these words as this particular time? What are His plans for me? Are there other bag ladies or homeless people that I will pastor? I wondered about the spiritual life of other people in similar circumstances. How many are my sisters and brothers in Christ? Do they have pastors? Is there a caring church to love and lead them?

One thing God seemed to settle in my mind—they are not all addicts. Some homeless people have found, for various reasons, their niche in society. In the days ahead, God would teach me, as a pastor to a bag lady, that I must respect her as a person and love and minister to her as He would, for I am His ambassador (2 Corinthians 5:20).

My pastoral relationship to Sister Taylor might be described as "different." There were no home visits, discipleship studies, or socializing. No spoken expressions of endearment—just acts of kindness and warm greetings, genuine respect for each other, and Christian love—a relationship that demanded no payback from each other. Refreshing!

As time passed, my relationship to Sister Taylor was producing change in me. I came to the place where I actually had a great admiration for her. She faced every day with a simple trust in God—trusting Him for daily bread. She would do her part—scouring the garbage cans and streets, and God would do His part. She would graciously accept gifts of food, money, and clothes from various sources as His provision for her needs. Just as God can change a sinner into a saint, He can also change trash into treasures. I saw it, not on one occasion, but many.

I never heard Sister Taylor complain about her lot in life. She lived it without blaming others. She was comfortable in who she was and in what she did. I never tried to move her from her comfort zone, believing it would have been a disaster for her. Instead, I prayed for wisdom to enter her world, not as one superior to the other, but as equals in the eyes of God.

I wanted to show a genuine interest in what she was interested in, and to show appreciation for her skills and accomplishments. I wanted to exchange encouragements with her. I wanted to be a pastor and friend to her. To do this, I would have to deal with ingrained concepts and prejudice toward certain classes of people.

Weeks turned into months. The amount of time escapes me, but I knew my pastoral duties at that church were coming to an end. One day, the ringing of my office phone interrupted my thoughts.

The caller, a woman, inquired, "Are you Pastor Yandell and do you know a Ms. Taylor?" I answered yes. She introduced herself saying, "I'm the lead nurse on the east wing of the first floor of the County Hospital. Ms. Taylor was hit by a car last Friday evening and was brought to the hospital with bruises and a bump on the head. She apparently received no serious injuries, but we kept her through the weekend for observation. Pastor, we would like for you to come for a visit with her and to evaluate her condition. After you have completed your visit, we want to meet with you for your evaluation of her and to ask you for more information about her."

I went immediately to the hospital and was met by a team of three nurses. They thanked me for coming and hoped I did not think they were being silly by calling me in for an evaluation. It seemed to them that Sister Taylor's conversation was not making sense that morning.

Sister Taylor had asked for her stuff. When they brought her clothes to her, she looked for the little sack she wore around her neck. Retrieving my card, she insisted on them calling me.

When I walked into her room, Sister Taylor was sitting on the side of the bed, fully clothed and ready to go home. (I still didn't know where home was.) After visiting with her, I concluded that she was acting normal and returned for my meeting with the nurses. I could add no new information, and they had made all the arrangements for her to go home.

Shortly after the hospital incident I moved to California. I've thought of her several times, and when I do questions fill my mind. You know, questions like you are having about her right now.

She came to the last service I had at the church. We parted with, "I'll see you later." I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, pulling her little red wagon with the large red reflectors, and wondered when and where we would meet again. Heaven? That would be excellent!

I have one regret. I did not tell her of the contribution she made to my life and the impact she made on my ministry. At the time, it didn't seem necessary. If she only knew . . .

Father, You know better than anyone that some of Your children have little of this world's goods. But, You also know that many of the rest of us fail to value and appreciate what is truly important. Thank You for using people like Sister Taylor to correct our perspectives.