The Red and White Basenji

I pulled up in front of the mobile home, in my dark blue Mustang, on a warm spring morning.  Martha Hoyle had contacted my office through our web page.  She was temporarily homebound and willing to help our ministry in any way possible.  I had to admit, some of the work available to home workers was monotonous.  We were years beyond stuffing envelopes, but the data entry work offered held very little excitement for those I interviewed. 

Martha opened the door before I had a chance to knock.  She was in her middle sixties, a bit rounded in the middle and the victim of a recent heart attack.  Her doctors wanted her to refrain from driving for a while.  Thus, her reason to contact my group and offer her services.

She asked me to enter without any reservation, which always surprised me.  I’m in my early twenties, having left college to go into ministry on a grant.  I’m a casual person, jeans, sport shirt and hiking boots.  Every client I visited seemed accepting of the fact that I spurned ties and suits for more comfortable attire.

I introduced myself.  She had a pleasant smile.  Her mobile home was decorated as if it were trapped in a time long past.  A red and white dog laid on the flowered sofa.

“His name is Red,” Martha said. “He’s a Basenji… an African dog.”

I’d heard about the breed.  The ‘Barkless Dog’, gave off a sound similar to a yodel.  Martha directed me to the small kitchen and a round wooden table with four chairs.  Red jumped down from his resting place and followed us.

“You remind me of my son,” she said as I took a seat. “He’s older now, turned forty last month.” 

I pulled my computer tablet from its case and turned the device on.  Most of the work we offered required a computer.  I hadn’t noticed one in Martha’s living room.  The Basenji watched me with curiosity before settling down beneath the table.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She asked.

“Sure,” I responded.

I found most of the elderly clients I visited to be quite hospitable.  Coffee seemed always on the menu.  I refused anything more out of respect for their limited income.

“Have you had breakfast?” She inquired.

“Thank-you, but I’m all set.”

She looked at me with doubt in her eyes.

“Honest,” I responded to her expression, “I had a bowl of cereal before leaving my apartment.”

“A good solid breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” She placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of me, before pouring herself one.

I noticed she took her coffee black.  I added a little cream to mine.

“So what we’re setting people up to do…”

“You know I have a daughter too, as well as a son,” she interrupted. “She lives out in Illinois.  My son is down in Texas.  He is in the military, almost ready to retire, Colleen, my daughter, she has three children, eight, six and three.  They both made trips out here… after my heart attack.  I haven’t seen the grandchildren in over a year.  Before my husband died we traveled a bit.  Now they don’t even want me driving to Walmart.”

I sat back in my chair.  My tablet had finished loading up.  I closed the interview program.

“Do you hear from them often?” I asked.

“Yes, they sent me a computer.  Said I could Skype them.  I’m not good with stuff like that.”

“Maybe I could look at it for you,” I offered.

She smiled.

“It would be nice to see my grandchildren’s faces when I speak to them,” She acknowledged.

“And you would be able to use the computer for some of the work we have to offer.”

“You sure you don’t want something to eat, an English muffin maybe?” She looked at me.  Her eyes went to the opened tablet.  They silently said no.

This was the point where I figured out something about the world and the woman sitting across the table from me.  We all need value.  We need to feel important and sometimes sharing the mundane aspects of our life with someone else gives us the value we seek.  It protects us from loneliness and helps us to see that sometimes what we see as ordinary is in fact quite special.

I could have preached.  Told her God was always near even though her children weren’t.  Then, maybe God was working through me.  He expected more of me.  I am nothing more than a small part of the body of Christ, but He is in me and I am in Him.

“I’ll have that English muffin,” I said.

“And a refill on the coffee?” She asked.

I nodded my head and closed the computer tablet.  Enjoyed an English muffin with a slab of butter and listened to Martha Hoyle tell me about her children, grandchildren and deceased husband.  Martha never did any work for our ministry.  All she wanted was a visitor, someone to share a cup of hot coffee with and a few kind words.

 

~

 

This story is based on an actual experience in my life.  When I was in my twenties I worked in ministry within the Diocese of Norwich.  I was the Outreach Director for a ministry that worked with disabled individuals.

I updated the story, made it a bit more relevant to the present time.  You see I had no Computer tablet and the actual work I was offering would have been envelope stuffing or raffle ticket numbering.

I don’t remember the woman’s real name, but she did live in a mobile home and have a Basenji.  I have spent most of my years working in a computer center, but I would never trade my years of ministry work for anything else.

Oh, and sometime after the English muffin was served, Red, the Basenji left the kitchen and returned to the living room sofa to continue his morning nap.

copyright 2020 - Donald P James Jr