Lynn D. Morrissey, is a Certified Journal
Facilitator (CJF), founder of Heartsight Journaling, a ministry for reflective
journal-writing, author of Love Letters to God: Deeper Intimacy through
Written Prayer and other books, contributor to numerous bestsellers, an
AWSA and CLASS speaker, and professional soloist. She and her beloved husband,
Michael, have been married since 1975 and have a college-age daughter,
Sheridan. They live in St. Louis, Missouri.
You may contact Lynn at words@brick.net.
Please feel to comment on this post, as she will be checking comments. As all writers do, she appreciates feedback and your responses to her work.
The first time I met Lynn, she was sharing her passion for the written word at a Women's Retreat. I reacquainted myself with her many years later, when I recognized her at a local Christian bookstore. She has been encouraging me ever since with her journaling passion and love for all things writing, but most of all her rich, extravagant love for Jesus. Here's a beautiful tribute written about a beautiful woman by another equally beautiful friend and woman of faith.
What a Friend
by Lynn D. Morrissey
Myrtle was dead. The
shriveled brown body encasing her generous spirit let go at God’s command. Like
autumn’s last leaf, thin and brittle as parchment, it drifted effortlessly to
its final resting place.
I met Myrtle years
ago. What an unlikely pair we were, our backgrounds and temperaments as
variegated as fall’s foliage. Myrtle was a venerable octogenarian of
African-American descent–gracious, humble, and gentle. Yet her soft-spokenness
was peppered with crisp humor and laughter that tinkled like a flurry of wind
chimes. Her diminutive ninety-pound frame housed a prayer warrior who regularly
conferred with her Captain and best friend, Jesus, whom she claimed could fix
anything. And He did!
I was a
thirty-something Caucasian with an impetuous nature. I loved God and His Word,
but was frustrated by my faith that seemed to fluctuate like a round of Simon
Says—two baby steps forward, three giant steps back. Solidly standing with
feet firmly fixed on her Rock, Jesus Christ, Myrtle’s faith simply was.
I stuck close to
Myrtle, hoping to absorb her faith secrets, and she was only too willing to
share them. Every Sunday, we met in our church’s tiny chapel. Myrtle always
left the doors open so people could join us for prayer, but few ever did.
Myrtle, whose arthritis might have dictated otherwise, insisted we kneel at the
altar rail. Inch by inch, she pleated like a weathered accordion, and with one
heavy sigh—shooo—finally dropped to her knees. I preferred my
comfortable pew seat, but knelt out of respect for Myrtle. She knelt out of
respect for God.
Myrtle prayed like
she talked, simply and sincerely. I, who had struggled with prayer for nearly
ten years as a Christian, was amazed at the effortlessness of her petitions, as
if she were chatting over the breakfast table with an intimate friend. One knew
that when Myrtle prayed, Jesus knelt alongside us, His presence palpable.
Myrtle didn’t just
pray to Jesus, she sang to Him, too. Her favorite hymn was What a Friend We
Have in Jesus, and that was no surprise. She sang to her friend Jesus while
she baked, washed, dusted, or tended the generational dozens of children
entrusted to her care over the years. She told me that singing gave her
spiritual strength. Myrtle sang most heartily in church, where she shone like
polished piano ebony among mostly white keys.
Sometimes it
disturbed me that Myrtle demonstrated what I considered to be a subservient
attitude towards her Caucasian counterparts, calling each lady by Miss or Mrs.
and her surname. Myrtle is just as good as they, I thought, and knows
her Bible better and can pray rings around them!
In retrospect,
although I believe Myrtle hailed from a generation plagued with societally
imposed racial distinctions, I learned that her personality was characterized
by subservience to Christ. His humble servant, she showed deference to others. Her
humility humbled me, and I longed to be more like her.
What a friend I had
in Myrtle. I called her day or night, asking endless questions or relaying
uncontrolled fears. She patiently listened, never criticizing, never minimizing
my wrestling. She’d offer a Bible passage to enlighten, a prayer to uplift. “Jesus
will fix it, Lynn,” she assured and I was soothed, though not always persuaded.
My faith needed to grow.
Sometimes trials
loomed larger than life, seemingly insurmountable. One morning at work, I made
a desperate call to Myrtle explaining that some board directors thought I was
negligent in raising critical funds for the agency for which I was executive
director. Some wanted me fired. “Jesus will fix it,” she insisted. “Let’s pray.”
We did and He did! I had never been one to toot my own horn, but at the
next board meeting, I had an opportunity to explain that I had personally been
responsible for generating a large percentage of support in both cash and
in-kind donations. A naive young woman, I had done my job without reporting it.
In response to Myrtle’s prayer, the Lord gave me courage to speak, and He gave
me favor with the board.
Another call to
Myrtle was even more desperate. I was forty and pregnant! This was a
circumstance that couldn’t be fixed or altered by any amount of praying.
And yet, in the ensuing months, as I confessed my anguish to my faithful,
non-judgmental friend, Myrtle, Jesus answered our prayers by fixing my
attitude. When my daughter was born, how proud I was to be her mother. And how
proud Myrtle was to be included at Sheridan’s baptism as her great-godmother.
Certainly arrogant
pride was not one of Myrtle’s characteristics. “Why would you, a college
graduate, ask advice from me?” she sometimes queried. I thought the answer was
obvious. Myrtle possessed the God-given wisdom that I needed.
Yet near the end of
her life, Myrtle’s wisdom was harder to discover. Her quick mind and quicker
wit were overshadowed by the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, scrambling her
language into a kind of verbal Morse-code gibberish. She could no longer talk
to others or to Jesus.
One afternoon, in
what was to be our last visit, I pulled her dusty hymnal from the piano bench,
asking her daughter-in-law for permission to play for Myrtle. As I played the
old familiar hymn, with tears streaming down her cheeks, Myrtle began to sing, “What
a friend we have in Jesus…” Although she could no longer talk to Jesus, she was
singing to Him just as she had throughout the years. While Myrtle couldn’t tell
Him, she knew He was still her best friend.
Several
days later, Jesus fixed Myrtle good as new. And now she’ll never stop singing!
(Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Lynn D. Morrissey)
