I must have slammed that good lady a hundred times over the last two decades of preaching.

Here’s what happened, and how I learned that I probably did her wrong.

In preaching a sermon I call Rejoice Anyway–a staple of my preaching ministry for a number of years–I would mention two elderly women in a church I used to pastor who illustrated the contrast between how to do it and how not to.  Here’s what I said–

Mary Hazel Miller and Maybelle Montgomery were both members of my church.  They were perhaps 75 or 80 years of age, and as different as night from day.  Maybelle lived in a humble cottage off the hill from downtown.  She did not have a lot of this world’s riches, but was easily the happiest Christian lady I’ve ever known. She was always rejoicing in the Lord. .  

They called from the hospital to say Mrs. Montgomery was in emergency with a broken hip.  I dropped whatever I was doing and drove down to check on her.  When I walked in the emergency entrance, she spotted me first.  Lying on a gurney, she called out so everyone could hear: “Praise the Lord, Preacher!  He left me one good leg!”  I burst out laughing, and gave her a hug.  I said, “What are we going to do with you?”

Now, Mary Hazel, on the other hand, was the most negative member I’ve ever had.  I’d go visit her in the hospital–that kind of negativism seems to put you in the hospital on a regular basis–and all she would do is complain.  “Oh, Doctor McKeever!  I don’t know where those doctors are.  The nurses rarely come by.  My sisters said they were going to come see me but they’ve not been here, either.”

I knew she was in a good Sunday School class, so–just making conversation–I would ask if any of them had been to see her.  “No, they have not!!” And she lit in on the doctors and nurses again, complaining about their neglect. 

That’s how it went every time I went to see her.  And that’s why one day I decided to tell Mary Hazel the facts of life, why everyone was ignoring her.

I pulled a chair up to her hospital bed, leaned over and said, “Now, Mary Hazel, I want to tell you why no one is coming to see you.”  (long pause)  “Mary Hazel, you are the most negative person I have ever known.”  (pause)  “No one can stand to be around you.”  (Did I say that I was young and stupid?  I was still in my 30’s and should have known better.)

I prepared myself for the explosion to come. 

All she said was, “Doctor McKeever!” and went right back to criticizing.

So, here’s what I discovered this week.

I was going through stacks of material here in my study, trying to clear out clutter.  And I came across a 1979 literary magazine from the high school in the Mississippi town which all three of my children attended.  From time to time I had come across the magazine here, but thought it contained a piece of writing from my second son, so I kept it around.  This week I sat down and opened the magazine.

There was nothing from my son Marty in there at all. In fact, in 1979 he would have been only 13 years old and would have had no reason to have something he wrote in the school’s literary magazine.  I glanced at the table of contents to see why I kept it all these years. And could not believe my eyes.

The second item listed, on page 6, was Mary Hazel Miller.

Student Debbie Barels–whom I do not know–wrote a two-page article on this retired schoolteacher.  Here is a portion:

Mary Hazel lives in a small house on the corner of Lincoln Road and Fifth Street North.  She has lived in this house for over fifty years and remembers when the roads were red dirt.  

Mary Hazel first came to Columbus in 1920 to teach China paintng at Mississippi University for Women.  She ended up introducing Dr. Pepper to the city.  As an artist, she painted the billboards that said, “Ten, two, and four.  Drink one at ten, one at two, and one at four; you’ll come back for more.”  She said they had a hard time selling it because everyone thought it was medicine.  

Mary Hazel owned two pieces of property in Palm Springs, California, where she designed clothes for movie stars. “I made lots of movie stars’ pictures,” she said.  

At the age of seventeen, Mary Hazel stowed away on a Cunard Line steamer for Australia.  It took three months to get there.  When she was seventy-one she studied Spanish at the University of Madrid in Spain.  “I decided if I were to learn it,” she said, “I would go where they made it.”

Mary Hazel would not tell us her age.  “A woman who will tell her age will tell anything,” she said.  She is presently working on her Ph.D. in philosophy at the university.  She has taken all the art courses the university offers. “I just live every day and am happy.  I’ve been here fifty years and I hope I’ll be here for fifty more.” 

I was stunned.

Now, bearing in mind that I left that pastorate some forty years ago, it will surprise no one that I recall no details of this elderly church member’s personal life.  The single trait that has remained with me all these years was her belly-aching.

Since that has lingered with me, that is what figured into my sermon on rejoicing (and in her case, the lack of same).

But I think I’ve done her a disservice.  She clearly was a doer, an achiever.

I wish instead of listening to her complain, I had pulled a chair up to the bed and asked about her life.  Clearly, she must have had a hundred stories to tell.

And telling them might have made her a different person, who knows?

It definitely would have left me with a far better memory of her.

Forgive me, Mary Hazel.