FISHERS OF MEN

Mark 1:17 Come, follow me and I will make you fishers of men.
I grabbed the car keys from the top of my desk and secured my purse over my shoulder, as I glanced at my watch, why do I do this to myself just enough time to get there. No time to spare.   
I had almost reached the garage door when the doorbell rang. I don't have time for this, I said to no one.
I opened the front door and pulled her inside. She wiped the tears with her sleeve.
"I know you're busy, but I just needed to see you." She said.
I whispered a quick prayer, "Lord, what do I do?"
I heard myself say, "Come on, you need to go with me."
She poured her heart out to me as we traveled to my first stop. We signed in at the counter and walked through the halls to see my friend. She sat in her wheel-chair, waiting for me. We talked for a minute, she shared the concerns in her nursing home life, we hugged and prayed, and a couple hours later we left for my next stop.
In the car my little teen aged friend didn't seem as upset, no longer crying, but still withdrawn.
We arrived at destination two. Walked into the room where the daughter sat at her Mother's bedside, holding her Mother's lifeless hand. We sat, prayed and the daughter shared stories of happier times with her Mother. Times before cancer had riddled her mother's body. 
On our way back to my house that day we stopped for pizza. My teen aged friend shared more with me.
For days, weeks and maybe months after that day I questioned my actions that day. Why didn't I rearrange my schedule that day, why didn't I say this, or do that? That day remained in my heart for a long time. I felt I had truly failed my little friend.
Over the years she did a fabulous job keeping in touch with me. I got cards, notes, email, text messages and every once in a while a real phone call.
One day I pulled a letter from my mail box with her familiar handwriting on the envelop.  That letter forever changed me.
In part it said,
I know you won't remember the day so many years ago when I showed up on your doorstep. I knew you were busy that day. You had your keys in your hand, sunglasses perched on your head and purse slug over your shoulder. However, you grabbed me off the front porch, wrapped me in your arms, dried my tears and said, 'come on, you're going with me today'.
I just wanted to leave. I didn't want to go with you, I wanted to see you, but no one else. I had been driving around that day for a while planning my suicide. I didn't have the money to buy sleeping pills. I came to your house that day to borrow the money from you. I was still so angry with God for "allowing" someone to murder my Mom. I hated everyone, including "your God". You drug me to the nursing home. When we walked into her room, that ladies face lit up. You walked over to her and hugged her, asked her what you could pray about with her that day. She told you she wanted to die. I couldn't understand why God would let her live and take my Mom. Later that afternoon we went to a Hospice house and talked to that daughter. Her mom was dying. You held the daughter and let her cry because she was losing her mom. There was no one there for me the night my mom was shot and killed.
The reason I'm writing this letter to you now, is to tell you, that day you planted the seed in me. Something happened to me that day. I didn't know for a long time what I was supposed to do with my life. I felt when my Mom died my life was over too. I was only 16. But some how God turned a tragedy into something He could use. Today, I'm a crisis counselor working with all these people who have the same kind of thing in their lives that I had in mine. Today I'm able to give them comfort, and I've led many to the Lord. Does that make me a fisher of men too?
   Yes my precious little friend. That makes you a fisher of men.