Role Model

When I was fifteen, I got my first paying job change ice cream at the Dairy Queen nearly my house. It was one of those seasonal outfits that opened for the hot summer months of may through September, then closed while the owners wintered in Florida. I accepted the job with glee, relishing the idea of earning full silver in the summer to relax and enjoy the rest of my civilize year.

My colleague at the ice cream counter was Mrs. baby buggy, a industrious, hyperactive 80 -year-old who had more energy than people a quarter her age. Mrs. Walker had been a pine-time town resi tool who survived the Depression, both World Wars, the Sixties and two decades beyond without forever ageing in any meaningful way. She had white hair and wrinkles, of course, only still had the good health, stamina and outgoing personality that do life worth living at 80. Shes someone who actually gives old people a good name.

I didnt complete any of this the day I first met her, of course. I fairish saw an old lady who somehow didnt have the disposition to stay home and watch soap operas. What in the worldly concern did she think she was doing hustling ice cream? And how big a dent would she put into my plans to pick up as many girls as possible at work? I wasnt receptive at first when Mrs. Walker started to talk intimately her life. I grunted civil monosyllabic responses to her stories about outliving two husbands and raising six kids during the Depression. What a downer, I model, as I quickly chased the thought of economic deprivation from my mind. I had never been without money and I couldnt re advanced to the concept of people starving in the US. How could anyone famish when ice cream was just 50 cents a form? During my second summer at the shop, Mrs. Walker seemed less spry than before, and I wondered if old age was finally catching up with her. I politely asked if she was OK, praying silently that she wouldnt burden me with some dreadful tale of cancer or heart disease. She as accreditedd me that she was fine, just had a few things on her mind. I didnt pursue it. We go along to work well together throughout the summer, with Mrs. Walker occasionally taking the time to educate her youthfulness James, as she called me. Mrs. Walker was very prickly about interpersonal skills and continuously pushed me to go the extra distance with the customers, not just the young pretty ones. She encouraged me to extend myself and render to make everyone devote with a smile. I nodded politely, but thought it was the corniest thing Id ever heard.

Mrs. Walker left early that summer, unexpectedly for me, but not to others who knew her well. She volunteered for a missionary program in Colombia, to economic aid awe for orphaned infants whose lives and families had been ravaged by the recent earthquakes. It seems that three of her sons ar missionaries there and had been presumed dead during the first quake. She hadnt heard from them for weeks after the incident and feared greatly about their well-being. Yet she never said a word about it. This had been her troublesome other things that I hadnt fazed getting details about.

Fortunately, her sons survived, but overwhelmed her with tales of sick, orphaned children who needed help from emergency personnel. Few volunteers were eager to accept an assignment in Colombia, with its its political and geographic uncertainty. It would truly take a enshrine to do it. Mrs. Walker didnt hesitate to accept the challenge.

Im not sure what impressed me the most. Maybe that she had raised three sons who were altruistic enough to become missionaries and devote their lives to helping others. Possibly that at her right age, Mrs. Walker still felt a calling to do something meaningful (even heroic) with her life.



I was amazed that she would risk life and subdivision without hesitation for children she didnt even know. I was humbled that she silently endure the potential loss of her sons and never once expressed her fears to anyone else. And, amazingly, throughout all of this trauma, she still found the time and energy to try to teach me some compassion.

Before meeting Mrs. Walker, Id never taken the time to get to know anyone outside of my own safe, allow world. My idea of starvation was dinner being an hour late and a tragedy was not having enough money to sully a new CD. My bursterer goals were immature and self-centered, focusing in the main on anticipated earnings. I felt ashamed of myself when I saw what a valuable contribution she was making to the world, long after most people hung up their hats and retired to the golf course. I knew in my heart that Id missed a golden hazard to learn about life from her while I was negligent trying to meet girls.

I wont make that mistake again. Mrs. Walker is due to return from Colombia in two weeks and Ive already affiliated to being at her welcome home party. Im looking forrader to getting to know this special woman better, even if it agent having my manners critiqued. It wont be easy to get her to talk about the experience, but I hope shell take me into her confidence and dissertate whats really going on in Colombia. I care about it and I care about Mrs. Walker in a way I never dreamed possible.

My attend once said that people often get their advocate from God in the most unlikely places. He too said that angels walk the earth unrecognized among the rest of us. In wildest dreams, I never thought Id meet one operative by my side at Dairy Queen. But I did, and her name is Mrs. Walker.

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