I was only four when Mrs. Muddle adopted me for a week. With my mother in the hospital and my father needing help, she must have seen me pulling my wagon complete with a cargo of grasshoppers along 8th Avenue on “Prairie Heights,” looking sad and forlorn.
And so she took me in. That's what neighbours did in those days. Although I may have been a handful, Mrs. Muddle smiled a lot during that week. A four-year-old doesn't remember much, but he remembers a smile. I wasn't her first child. She had five others. But none of them seemed to mind my intrusion.
My own Dad came along and tucked me in each night, so I knew all would be well. But one day it wasn't. One day they tell me I found a fresh jar of sweet pickles in Mrs. Muddle's fridge. By the time I was full, the jar was empty. Mrs. Muddle didn't say much, just held my little forehead as I transferred those sweet pickles from my stomach to her sink. She had every right to say, “Ha! It serves you right, you gluttonous little orphan.” But she didn't. I was worth more than a jar of pickles to her, I suppose. And so I enjoyed that week. I enjoyed her smile. But I can't eat sweet pickles to this day.
Many years have passed.
On a Friday afternoon a month before Christmas, I joined 300 others in an overflowing church to celebrate Mrs. Muddle's life. And mourn her passing. At the front, beneath a rugged wooden cross, sat a few hundred brightly-wrapped shoeboxes, waiting for December and the volunteers at Samaritan's Purse to scatter them Santa-like around the world. The coordinator for Operation Christmas Child in our community is Tony Hanson. Mr. Hanson is one of those elderly people who views retirement as an opportunity to do things he always wanted to do before.
Standing on his feet during the funeral, Mr. Hanson took one of the boxes to the pulpit and smiled at the crowd. “This is Mrs. Muddle's shoebox,” he said, lifting the lid and pulling out a freshly pressed shirt.
The box was marked for a boy 10-14 years old. In it were: clothes, a Bible, and things boys the world over enjoy. It also contained a handwritten note. “Do you mind if I open it?” Asked Mr. Hanson. The family nodded in eager approval.
I sat near the back, listening as he read the last words Mrs. Muddle wrote. Words that left me and a few hundred other fighting back tears.
Dear Friend,
I hope you enjoy this gift box. It comes with my love to you. I am sick and very weak now, so do not write well. I have three granddaughters and seven grandsons and I love them all. My prayer is that they will all come to know Jesus as their Saviour. I believe they have accepted Him, but not all are living for Him. I pray you will accept Him too. I am your new Grandma—I’m 85 years old.
With my love, Honour Muddle
All kinds of people have impacted me through the years. Some are preachers. Some are writers. Others are relatives. And one was a faithful wife and mother with a simple philosophy: When you see a need, meet it.
Ten years ago, when I was staring down the barrel of a job I felt vastly under qualified for—as editor of Servant magazine—one of the first things I did was ask roughly 20 retired people to pray for me. Mrs. Muddle was one who said yes. When I met her from time to time in the grocery store or on the street she would remind me that she was praying for me. And a few times she said, “I pray for you every day.”
A few weeks after her beloved husband passed away, she reminded me, “I pray for your every day.”
When her health was failing and she knew her time was short, Mrs. Muddle was praying for me.
I can't read Philippians 2:3-4 without thinking of Mrs. Muddle's example:
“Don't be selfish; don't live to make a good impression on others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourself. Don't think only about yourself. Don't think about your own interests, but be interested in others, too, and what they are doing.”
Once I asked Mrs. Muddle what helped her during tough times. “Oh,” she said simply. “Life is too short to live it for yourself.”
That's the way she lived.
That's the way she died.
Helping people like me run the race.
I'll never look at a jar of sweet pickles without thinking of that one word: Others.
