These Is My Legs

The first day I climbed the steps to Sister Jones’ house sitting high above Court Street, I ascended the hill with my heart in my throat. It’s not that I was afraid of Sister Jones; but I had no idea what to expect once I landed on her porch. I knew she was “ninety-six years young” and in poor health… but what exactly “poor health” meant was the mystery. I was filled with anxiety about my abilities in pastoral care.

But the moment she greeted me at the door with her Southern drawl beckoning me to “c’mon in, c’mon in”, I knew I was entering the lair of a great sage.

Sister Jones is perhaps the most well known person in town. If something needs to be done, Sister Jones is whom you turn to. If you need to find someone or learn something about the town, Sister Jones has the information. And if you want an inspirational lecture about how to live your life, Sister Jones has a good many on hand that she can deliver at a moment’s notice.

So, I entered her home and sat in an antique chair and waited patiently as nurses set to work on Sister Jones’ legs. For years Sister Jones has been nursing an “ulcer” that forms on the inside of her right ankle. She would care for it until it seemed to heal, but eventually it would reopen… over the years it became gradually worse. Now, she is left with a large, gaping wound on her foot that will not heal. Perhaps it is her age, poor circulation, or the years of medical neglect she has suffered, but it just will not close.

The nurses on call are frustrated by their inability to change the doctor’s orders or to offer her an alternative that will ease her discomfort… but Sister Jones doesn’t complain and she doesn’t raise too much of a stink. And the nurses are grateful that she’s easy to deal with, especially when they have to deliver the bad news that her leg isn’t healing. But Sister Jones proudly proclaims that it is looking better, anyway.

Once the nurses have left, Sister Jones begins telling me about one of the other women who offers her medical care. That woman doesn’t seem to care much for Sister Jones’ input and acts as if Sister Jones is simply too old to be of sound mind… but the woman wraps her leg too tight every time and often hurts her when she’s cleaning the wounds.

“Maybe I shouldn’t say nuthin’ to her ‘bout her job,” Sister Jones wonders out loud. But before I can encourage her to speak up for herself when she feels she is not being treated right, Sister Jones proudly proclaims, “But these is my legs, and they’s the only ones I got!”

I smile at her refusal to accept anything less than respect from anyone… but it would take me a while to understand just how subversive her statement had been.

Sister Jones is an African-American woman who was raised in a segregated America during the age of Jim Crow. Those who encountered her would automatically count two strikes against her: one for the shape of her body and one for the dark hue of her skin.

But Sister Jones knew in her heart that neither of those things were strikes against her and that even if America wanted to be obsessed with her gender or race, she would not allow it to stop her from achieving all that she wanted.

She was president of the Homemaker’s Association… although most of the women who know her now would never characterize her as a homemaker. Maybe that’s why she held the post for so many years: to subvert the myth of a woman’s place being in the home. Sister Jones worked… she worked for doctors and she worked all over town in jobs that meant everyone knew who she was. And then she began her own catering business and continued to run it until she decided to “retire.”

Of course, women like Sister Jones never really retire. She dove headfirst into volunteer activities… not that this was new to her. She had been volunteering her whole life to one cause or another, but now she could put all her energy into it. When it came time to raise money for the Susan G. Komen Walk for the Cure, Sister Jones’ knees wouldn’t allow her to participate. But she raised more money than anyone else in the region… and then she came back and did it the next year, too.

She has spent her life advocating for women, children, the church, and anyone else she saw who was in need of an advocate. Sister Jones never backs down from a fight, and she never assumes that she can’t do something well because the rest of the world thinks she shouldn’t be able to.

When the world told her she should keep her mouth shut and hide in a kitchen, she burst out of that dark room and into the light of day. When the world told her she was inferior because her skin was too dark, she stood up and demanded respect. Now she can’t help but feel the world is telling her she’s too old to know what is good for her… but she won’t accept it.

“These is my legs,” she proudly proclaims, laying ownership to her body, to her will, to her health, to her well being, and to her fate.

Sister Jones knows that every part of her body was lovingly crafted by the God that has walked with her through these ninety-six years, holding her up when life tried to knock her down and lifting her up so that all could see what a child of God can do to change the world. There is no one in this world that can strip her of her dignity and her freedom. And should someone try, Sister Jones will be there to put them in their place with simple words of great wisdom like, “These is my legs.”

I stood by her, one hand holding hers and the other resting on her back as I offered a prayer, but when I opened my eyes I knew that I was gazing into the face of Christ… I had climbed her steps, worried that I would not be a blessing to this woman. I descended those same steps, knowing that in that precious hour, I had been blessed.