“I would agree,” I replied. “That’s why I think I should know what I’m getting into so I can know if I can give them what they need. However, I do want to find something I enjoy doing, something that’s useful, and do it for the long haul.”

I drew in breath as I bought time to say the words I needed to say without lying in a house of God.

Then I said, “My children are older. They don’t need me as much anymore and my husband and I are divorced so I actually don’t have them all the time. I’ve never worked, but with an empty house, I need something to fill my life. I think I might like it filled with some elderly who are doing me a return favor by keeping me company.”

She studied me a moment before she said softly, “I like that you think of it that way.”

“I’m glad,” I replied then introduced myself. “I’m Amelia Hathaway.”

She lifted her hand and started to me, with me meeting her halfway. “Ruth Fletcher.”

We clasped hands and her hold was firm and warm. “Lovely meeting you, Ruth.”

“And you, Amelia,” she replied.

We let go and she motioned to the desk. “How about you give me your telephone number? I’ll call Dove House and we’ll set up a meeting with Dela Coleman.”

“Excellent,” I agreed, moving with her to the desk.

I left my number, we said warm good-byes and I went back out to my car.

I didn’t dally in front of the church wondering if I’d done the right thing.

I drove away, thinking volunteering at a nursing home could mean anything, and a variety of those things could be unpleasant.

But I wouldn’t want to volunteer and demand that I got to read stories or oversee craft time.

I’d want to volunteer and do what was needed.

Which could mean cleaning up a number of messes, changing sheets, doing laundry, who knew?

And as I drove home, something strange stole over me. Something strange and new and unbelievable.

Because my mind was filled with all of the things that could be required of a down and dirty volunteer at a nursing home, and all I could think was that I hoped like heck they liked me.

Because I couldn’t wait to start.

* * * * *

“Praise be to Jesus!” the woman behind the desk at Dove House called to the ceiling, her hands lifted up there, her plethora of black braids shaking. She dropped her hands and her eyes hit Ruth, sitting across the desk in a chair beside me. “Call up the good Reverend”, she jerked her head my way, “and God sends a miracle.”

Ruth beamed.

“I’m hardly a miracle,” I mumbled.