She was never a close friend of mine, but through Jerry’s ministerial relationship with her son Leon Frost, who pastors The First Pentecostal Church of Bakersfield, I met her some years ago, and often spoke briefly with her when I visited that church. I do not even know her first name, but when I heard of her death a couple of weeks ago, I was saddened.
The sadness has little to do with her; rather it circles ’round her family and her friends, for I know they are grieved at her passing, and when again, I visit that beautiful church in Bakersfield, I, too, will miss my little visit with that beautiful, white-haired woman of God. Her lovely face invariably radiated with love and care, and, although she was quite elderly, when I was there, she seemed to make it a point to come where I sat and to speak with me. She made me feel she went out of her way to visit with me, but I strongly suspect she had the knack of making everyone think she was special, and that this godly woman had gone out of her way to speak to her.
Death is much like the end of a journey, and although we don’t go into its reaches with suitcase and other travel gear, we do take one thing with us–an important record–the tale of our life. When we make the trek to the other side and have ended our journey, we unpack, and there in the presence of God–our record is handed, and is told.
My little friend from Bakersfield, Ca. has negotiated the final trip and now stands in the presence of God. Her journey is done, her suitcase is empty. Surely it is a glorious day.
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