Introduction

Once in a great while we are given the privilege of meeting an old soul with great wisdom and faith, one from whom we can gain much learning. If we meet one of these humble souls we will never get them to admit they have anything to teach us, but if we are lucky they will tell us their stories. The circumstances of meeting these souls can be truly amazing.

Some months ago I was summoned to the seventh floor of the hospital where I had a truly sobering experience. An earlier phone call from an acquaintance, Ron, revealed him to be in the hospital fighting a dangerous kidney infection. For most of us this would not be a major issue but for Ron, who has been a quadriplegic for thirty-one years, it's more than a big deal, it can be life-threatening. He'd been living on the edge of survival for decades with his eighty-five year old mother, who has been caring for him in a once-grand Victorian house.

While visiting Ron, I casually asked about his mother, one Elva Mize Rice. Ron told me that his mother had fallen and broken her hip two weeks earlier and was now confined to a nursing home following corrective surgery.

Ron related to me the facts of a horrific scenario. About 8:30 PM one February evening, Ron's mother went out to the porch to lock the screen door and on her way back into the house stumbled. She heard her own hip shatter on the way down. She ended up lying on the floor until the middle of the next day writhing in intense pain, wondering if she would freeze to death in the middle of a long winter night. She was never able to reach a phone. Ron lay helpless on his bed just inside the door that same long night, quite unable to call for help, also wondering if anyone would find them. For them it proved to be the best night of their lives.

During the next many months I visited that nursing home nearly every day. There I had the privilege to sit in the presence of one who has lived eight-five years and hear her stories, get sage advice, and learn that what at face value might be seen as grim circumstances are, in fact, gateways to journeys of faith.

On my many visits I learned that Elva Rice had over the years written a number of poems that provided evidence of a whit-hot Christian faith that has seen her through the grimmest of experiences. Most of us can only guess at the nature of the turbulent waters Ms. Rice has passed through.

At age thirty one, her dear daughter, Mary, was struck dead in her bed by a congenital cardiac anomaly. At age twenty one her only son, Ron, was struck in the back of the head in a auto accident and rendered a complete quadriplegic, unable to even wipe away his own tears. For eight years, Ms. Rice provided tender care to her beloved husband who succumbed several years ago. Her one other remaining daughter, Ann, struggles with a variety of medical challenges of her own.

She knows about loss and tragedy first hand, yet she will with total sincerity repeat over and over how good her Lord has been to her. During my visits with her I was entranced by a faith that could transform massive calamity into true victory. Her son was only supposed to live five to seven years after his accident. It is a testament to her loving care and strong faith that he has now lived more than thirty-one years in her care.

I was astounded to find that while in the nursing home Ms. Rice became a beacon of hope for many patients and staff who often live their lives in shadows of vast despair and difficulty.

In my visits I learned that the poems Ms. Rice had written over some fifty years were to be found on brittle disintegrating note pads. She expressed fear that these poems would be forever lost. These poems express a faith in her Lord that she wants all to know in a personal way.

It has always been my belief that every person, every life, is a treasure chest of experience, memories, stories, and in some rare special cases, extraordinary faith. I knew that I had been called to preserve these poems and many stories that had never been written down. Over a three month period I carried a lap top computer to her bedside and transcribed her stories and poems. Her poems and stories proved to be balm to the soul for many and were quickly copied and passed among patients and staff at the nursing home.

The following pages represent a meager portion of her poems and stories. With the exception of the story "#409" and a very modest amount of editing, all of the words are hers. "#409" is included as it gives my own perceptions of those first early weeks of learning in Room 409. These pages are meant to be a gift to her and her family for sharing her great faith with me.
She wanted you to have them also