On one drizzly day this week, Hermana Dempsey and I became frustrated as, one by one, each of our plans fell through. We had several hours at our disposal and nobody to visit. So we sat down and tried to formulate a plan. One name, Romina, a less active sister, came to my mind, but I dismissed it because she lived far away and we would have to take a bus to get to her house, and the last few times we had tried to visit her, she hadn't been home. I didn't even mention it to my companion. Eventually we came up with some sort of plan which basically consisted of just walking without a real destination in mind. Or maybe we had a destination, I don't remember now.
After walking several blocks, my companion gave up. "I'm tired of walking in the rain," she said. "We're just going to take a bus." Once again, Romina's name nudged my mind. Now that taking a bus was an option, I was more willing to listen to the prompting. My companion agreed to the idea, and we went to visit Romina. We found her at home and had a lovely visit with her. When we left, we had a little bit of time left before our last appointment of the night. I suggested that we poke our heads in at a little kiosko nearby where, earlier in the week, we had met a very friendly woman and her cuñada (sister-in-law) who was visiting from the south of Argentina.
We found Catharina and Teresa in the little kiosko, and they promptly invited us in. Catharina immediately set about making us tea (herbal, of course) and sandwiches, serving us as if she were our own mother because, she explained, her children were living far away and she hoped someone would mother them while she couldn't. (I certainly felt that this loving sister was an answer to many prayers offered by my dear parents.) While she served us, we talked with Teresa. And as we talked with her, we learned the real reason we had been led to that place that night.
Teresa recently suffered a tragedy in her life that left her at once both widowed and childless. As she told us about her only son, only ten years old when death claimed him, she could not contain the tears. She wept, and we wept with her. We talked about God's plan, about the resurrection, about the promise that we can live with our families forever. We testified of God's love for her.
When we left, she thanked us sincerely. We promised to send the missionaries to her home, that she might have access to the healing power of this marvelous gospel.
How grateful I am that God sees fit to use us, weak and wicked though we are, to bring about this glorious work. As the prophet Isaiah declared:
And he hath made my mouth like a sharp sword; in the shadow of his hand hath he hid me, and made me a polished shaft; in his quiver hath he hid me.
I ever pray that I may be a polished shaft in the quiver of the Lord, an instrument in His capable hands.
All my love,