HELEN, MY SISTER

I sat at the desk in our hotel room completely engrossed in my book when a sharp rap on the door startled me. The door opened slightly and a cheerful face peered around the edge.
“Housekeeping!” announced the owner of the face.
“Come in,” said I, and thus began a brief but unforgettable friendship.

The lady, who introduced herself as Helen, set to work immediately and while performing her housekeeping chores, spoke of many things.

I learned that she was born in 1942 in a poor section of Chicago. She had attended school with children of varied ethnic backgrounds, but at the end of the school day she and the other African American children were escorted back to their neighborhood and were expected to stay within those boundaries. She felt no anger or animosity toward anyone for this injustice, but accepted the fact that in those times “that was just the way things were.”

Helen had a happy home life, with several brothers and sisters, and good parents who taught their children of God’s love for them. They grew up with the certainty that even though the world discriminated against certain people, all were equal in God’s eyes. Their parents gave them the gift of self-esteem and confidence in an environment where self-doubt could easily have deflated them.

Helen is slightly round in shape and suffers from arthritis in many of her joints. Her knees are bad and require surgery. She has a heart condition, which causes frequent fatigue and often compels her to miss work. She did not mention these problems in a complaining way, but rather as a tribute to the hotel’s housekeeping staff for their understanding and kindness. Whenever she calls in to say she feels too ill to work, the management always tells her, “Just take care of yourself, Helen, and get to feeling better. We hope you will be back with us soon.”

Retirement is something she eagerly looks forward to. In November she will be sixty-six, and eligible for social security. She looks forward to spending time with her grandchildren. She is the mother of four, but one daughter recently died of sickle cell anemia, a severe and frequently fatal hereditary disorder common among those of African descent.

I suspect Helen could have completed her duties in our room quite quickly, but she lingered a full forty-five minutes to visit with me, puttering around and keeping busy all the while.

Not only did she freely share many details of her own life, but she was also interested in mine. She asked whether I had children, and when I told her she was sincerely intrigued.
“Wow.” She exclaimed, “Five Men!”
I told her about my eleven grandchildren; five boys and six girls, three of whom were triplets. She was ecstatic over this revelation, marveling and exclaiming about how wonderful it was.

The time passed much too quickly, and we very soon felt like old friends. Finally, when she could justify staying no longer, she came close to me and extended her hand in a gesture of farewell. What I saw in her eyes was genuine love and concern for a person she had known for less than an hour.

Though the circumstances of our lives appear different on the surface, the issues we deal with are much the same. We share a love of God and family. We worry about the world our grandchildren will inherit. We have elderly parents to be concerned about. We face health issues and the myriad of problems associated with aging. But above all, we are able to find joy amid the conflicts and complications of daily life.

I reached out and grasped her extended hand, forming a symbolic bridge between two lives. I had found a friend, a kindred spirit, a sister.