“Welcome” was the simple message read by friend or stranger when he climbed the stone steps that led to the trim cottage on Evans Lane. Everyone who knew those who lived within was aware that it wasn’t just an empty word used to grace the doormat, for many a tired, hungry wayfarer had found the hospitality of this friendly home awaiting them.
It was the bright smile of Myra Davis that most adorned the place. But the mere adornment was not its intent, for she found real joy in sharing her happiness with others. Perhaps the constant care her mother required in her illness had intensified her willingness to brighten life’s drabness in ways that only Myra could.
She it was who washed and starched the fluffy yellow curtains at the kitchen window and baked the flaky apple pies that filled the house with their aroma, which drifted down the lane each Friday morning.
She too had trimmed the shrubbery that lined the walk and trained the scarlet rambler to bend its beauty over the porch near Mother’s window.
Poor Mother, Myra thought, and she sighed as she bent to cut the grass choking the pansies. Her mother’s heart condition had been critically worse of late, but she was extremely patient when her bad spells came. If only she didn’t suffer so! Myra prayed constantly that the Lord would spare Mother pain and not take her suddenly when Myra wasn’t near to bring the relief that Dr. Thomas had provided. With good care Mother would live for years, he had told them; it was only these sudden attacks that were dangerous.
She glanced through the open window to where Mother lay, her ashen face turned toward the light. Her lips were moving, “Myra,” she was whispering, “hurry!”
Dropping the grass shears, Myra ran quickly up the steps, through the kitchen and into the adjoining room. Despite the fact that her mother’s calls had been frequent of late, she felt alarmed as she saw how unusually pale she looked now.
Without hesitation Myra began the routine to which she had become accustomed. She wheeled the oxygen tank from the closet to the bedside, and she carefully adjusted the valve after hurriedly placing the tent over the pale, gasping patient.
In a few moments she sighed in relief, for her mother’s white face had flushed slightly and she was breathing normally. Within an hour Mother had fallen asleep. The tent was removed and the tank returned to the closet.
Later, at sundown, Myra sat by the open window watching the twilight steal across the valley and listening to the woodland concert in the nearby grove of evergreens. A nightingale’s lusty notes all but drowned out the call of a whippoorwill and a brown thrush. From the distance, a great horned owl called gloomily. When the moon rose behind the hill she was still sitting there, watching its silvery beams until they found the brook below the house.
Myra’s reverie was broken by a sudden choking sound. Turning, she switched on the light. Mother was breathing with difficulty again. Quickly, Myra prepared to administer the oxygen again. Turning the handle, she waited for the familiar sound. The silence was ominous. There was no more oxygen!
Myra was terrified. What could she do? The tank had scarcely been used since it had been delivered. Surely it couldn’t have been emptied already.
She tried again. Could it be possible that by mistake the hospital had sent out a tank that was almost empty? The sufferer’s eyes sought hers.
“Just a minute, Mother,” Myra said quietly and then she turned and fled from the bedside.
“Oh heavenly Father,” Myra prayed from the corner of her room, “please help me to know what to do. Send help, Lord, for I cannot leave Mother while she is this way.”
“Mother,” she began, scarcely knowing just what she would say, and surprising herself when she finished the sentence, “you must try to manage without the oxygen for a few minutes. Try to breathe as normally as you can for a while to see if you can strengthen your respiratory system. Will you try?”
Her mother’s eyes closed, and she attempted to nod in reply.
At that moment there was a knock on the door. When Myra opened it, she found their nearest neighbor, Mrs. Parker, standing there. She was attempting to apologize for her late call when the girl all but swept her off her feet in welcome.
“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I am so glad you came. I’ve been praying that someone would! Surely you are the answer to that prayer,” and she dabbed the corner of her eye with the hem of her apron while she told the older woman what had happened.
Mrs. Parker suggested she call the police emergency squad at once, because the hospital ambulance was usually out on call. The telephone operator supplied the number, and the police promised to send immediate aid.
Myra returned to her mother’s room and knelt by the bed. The gasps were coming more quickly now. The suffering eyes looked imploringly into her own.
“Now,” the woman choked, looking at the gauge.
Calmly, Myra placed the tent in its proper position and turned on the valve. There was no sound.
“Father, all things are in Thy hands,” she prayed silently as she bowed by her mother’s side.
Suddenly a radiant glow seemed to fill the room. Was there a heavenly hand upon her shoulder? A voice whispered, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.”
The girl was trembling. Surely she was in the very presence of a divine being. She had done all that she could; now heaven had sent aid that no human being could give. All fear vanished, and she raised her head in grateful adoration.
The light was gone, but her mother lay resting quietly. The oxygen was flowing freely into the tent!
It was nearly half an hour later when the new supply of oxygen was brought from the local hospital and replaced the empty tank that had so miraculously provided life for Mrs. Davis.
Myra stood at the window watching Mrs. Parker disappear down the moonlit lane until she was lost in the shadows of the night.
“Surely,” she said softly, “God does work in mysterious ways His wonders to perform!”
My Favorite Prayer Stories, Joe L. Wheeler, ©2015, 160–163