Beverly.

I spent some time in the doctor’s office today. I was at the newest clinic building in downtown Duluth. When I first walked in, my eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the never-ending windows that overlook Lake Superior. My ears were filled with the gentle hum of conversation, and I noticed a few people enjoying coffee. The scene was peaceful, in a way.

Radiology was a different story, however. Although the waiting room was not far from the main entrance, conversation had died away. My eyes scanned the silent room when we walked in, and the eyes of a few people looked up and met mine. I wasn’t sure what to make of this area. After checking in, we found seats in the middle of the room.

I took my latest C.S. Lewis read out of my purse, but I didn’t open it right away. Instead, I continued to look around. A little old woman who I had noticed in my initial scan caught my eye again. This time, I looked closer.

She was hunkered over in a wheelchair, barely moving. In a chair next to her sat an older man who I can only assume was her husband. The woman wore pajama pants striped in multiple shades of blue and a matching top. On her lap sat an ice cream bucket with a plastic lining. I instantly realized its use and silently hoped I wouldn’t have to witness it.

The feature that caught my eye the most, though, was the look on her face. Distress spread across it, and her husband wore an expression to match. My heart broke a little bit.

Doing my best to focus, I began to read my book, occasionally glancing up at the couple. At one point, her husband got up and walked to the desk. A minute later, the receptionist came out and spread a blanket across the woman. She pulled the blanket up close to her chest. She must have had an awful case of the chills. I pulled my head back down and in to the pages of my book, after saying a prayer for her.

“Beverly!” a woman’s voice announced. My eyes shot up in natural response. The little old woman raised her hand, and this other woman came out to wheel her to the back. Beverly’s husband now sat alone.

A short time later, he took a phone call. His expression perked up during it. I caught bits and pieces of what he was saying. He told the person on the phone that they were there to find out why Beverly was sick. I wondered what was wrong.

Beverly was eventually wheeled back out to her husband, looking similar to when she’d left. Her husband told her about the phone called, his mood seeming to have improved because of it. He then stood up, grasped the back of her wheelchair, and wheeled her out. Just like that, they were gone.

I wonder if they were able to learn why Beverly was sick, or if they’ll find that out at all. I’m not entirely sure why, but her face has stuck in my mind. I wonder about her story and the things she’s experienced in her lifetime. I wonder if she knows the Lord.

Perhaps, for me, Beverly was simply a reminder. A reminder that there are a lot of sick people, everywhere you go. A reminder that all kinds of people are waiting for some type of news. A reminder that there is an entire world in need—and I want to be Christ’s hands and feet throughout it.