5 November 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 3

The Wondrous Quiet Life

by JIM HEYNEN

She was sixty-two and widowed. Church people did not recognize her, but people at the animal shelter did. People at the shopping mall did not recognize her, but people at the library did. In this woman's life, there were more books than traffic lights, more cats than cell phones, more vegetables than credit cards.

In appearance, she looked ordinary in her blue denim jeans and workshirt, her graying hair wrapped tidily at the back of her neck. Her hands had the size and strength of a laborer's, but her smile had a gentle sweetness. She did not startle easily, though she moved through the world with a smooth swiftness, with a confidence that was not aggressive.

She seemed neither lonely nor gregarious. She seemed neither indifferent nor friendly. Still, some curious and good people wondered if she was all right. When they asked her, she said she had what she needed. When they gave her gifts, she accepted but offered more in return than what she had been given.

She had neither answers nor questions for anyone. If she had strong opinions, she didn't offer them. If she had worries, she didn't share them. Those who came near her felt a peacefulness spreading around her. She was like a soft cloud passing overhead, or like a hidden bird singing from the shrubbery. "Let's not disturb her," someone said.