The Story of Edith Easter # 192-A
Series: Fictional Stories:
An Easter Story By Russell Kelfer
The Story of Edith Easter
It was not your typical doctor’s office. Great pains had been
taken (I understand doctors don’t like that expression) but
great pains had been taken to create the atmosphere of a
family room rather than that of a waiting room.
In one corner, a large TV screen which dwarfed a row of small
chairs was designed to make restless children feel at home. The
idea was to divert their attention, at least momentarily, from the
unpleasant possibility that a hypodermic needle full of penicillin
might be a part of their fate on the other side of those big double
doors.
Behind the TV screen was a window which connected the
waiting room to the business office and a video recorder which
saw to it that the children were watching something edifying and
not something too realistic like the emergency room scenes on
hospital shows.
Tiny headphones at each chair allowed the children to view
the likes of Mary Poppins without poppin’ the eardrums of the
ailing or aching adults who waited across the way in their own
little world — a world that included a plug-in sound system that
let them choose their own music.
Behind the vine-covered opening with the electronically
controlled window was the receptionist, Brenda Carter, who
laughingly admitted she was hired because of her knowledge of electronics,
not because she knew an appendectomy from a
tonsillectomy. Alongside her appointment sheet was a console of
switches that looked like a good prop for a Star Wars’ episode,
and above her window was a bronze plate that read “Will Phillips,
M.D., General Practice of Medicine.”
Unfortunately, today was not an unusual day in the life of
this family doctor. Dr. Phillips had been awakened from, believe
it or not, a sound sleep at 3:30 a.m. by Bea Foster, a widow who
had been troubled for years by a bad back. She had awakened in
the night, tried to walk, and had fallen and bruised herself badly,
requiring X-rays and the works.
At about 5:15 a.m., when Mrs. Foster was finally resting
comfortably in her hospital room and Dr. Phillips was headed
for the elevator, he heard the familiar sound of his beeper and
immediately knew that another emergency was about to usurp
the place on his schedule that had been marked breakfast. This
time it was Billy Reynolds calling. His son, Tom, was on the
way to the emergency room with what sounded like possibly the
doctor’s 37th victim of a new strain of flu bug that was making
the rounds most indiscriminately. By the time Tom was treated
and released, 10:00 a.m. had rolled around, and Dr. Will, as he
was respectfully called, arrived just in the nick of time to greet an
office full of patients who were patiently waiting.
As he entered the front door — he always came in that way
so he could greet those who were waiting — his very presence
seemed like a ray of sunshine. His 6 foot 3 inch frame was indeed
imposing until you looked into his eyes – then you forgot how big
he was!
Those eyes showed an amazing mixture of strength and
compassion, of objectivity blended with sensitivity.
It was a look that seemed to say to people: “I know what I’m
doing,” and yet at the same time, “I care about what I’m doing,” as well.
It was, as we said, not an unusual day for our family doctor,
but he carried an unusual burden as he entered the waiting room
that Friday morning — a waiting room that was packed. Yet as
Will Phillips’ eyes scanned that crowd, he did not see a throng of
people; he saw individuals, each of whom he cared about a great
deal.
There was the Perkins boy, Freddy, crippled from birth, and
yet not at all crippled in spirit, now grown into a strong young
man preparing to enter medical school. What a positive influence
Will Phillips had been on his life.
There was Mary Fletcher, the school teacher who so often
appeared with a carload of children from the poverty ridden area
where she taught, always paying their bills herself.
There was Bill Norris, the drug salesman from up state
who always had the latest news on the latest cures, and whose
friendship with Will spanned the twelve years Will had been in
practice.
But as he glanced through the room, and his eyes moved
to the west wall, suddenly his heart seemed to stop beating, for
sitting on the edge of one of those comfortable leather sofas was
none other than Edith Berns, 82 years young, and without a
doubt the godliest woman Will Phillips had ever had the joy of
knowing.
There she was, her open Bible on her lap, her hand gently
squeezing the hand of a troubled young mother who “just
happened” to be sitting beside her. You can just bank on one
thing — she was talking about Jesus!
Edith Berns’ conversations always centered around Jesus,
for Edith Berns’ life centered around Jesus!
She always had the time (at least she always took the time) to
stop and tell anyone who would listen that there was really only
one reason for living . . . and Jesus Christ was that reason!
And you just knew how she started the conversation, too —
with a sparkle in her eye and a captivating smile that had become
such a natural part of her that the lines on her face had formed
around it. She would say, “Hello, I’m Edith Berns. Do you believe
in Easter?”
Since it was October 25th, that question seemed even stranger
than it would have in March, but Edith had found it was an
ice-breaker that almost always led to the heart of the Christian
message and yet never seemed to be offensive.
The knot in Will Phillips’ stomach this Friday morning in
October, however, was not because Edith Berns was using his
waiting room as a fish pond for her evangelistic endeavors; that
delighted Will. His burden was the result of a lab report he had
received the day before. That lab report meant that Edith Berns
just might not live to celebrate another of those Easter Sundays
that had so highlighted her life.
Will’s job this morning was to break the news to Edith that
the diagnosis was that her disease was inoperable, untreatable,
and incurable and that the next few months would surely be
characterized by a great deal of pain and suffering. He had faced
this unpleasant task many times before for a man who was only
38 years old, but none had grieved him like the encounter that
awaited him this morning.
So the doctor took an abnormally long time with his first
three patients. He reasoned that he wanted to give Edith all the
time she needed to talk about Easter to her captive audience in
the waiting room, but his real reason was that he couldn’t face
the prospect of describing to that precious saint the possibility of
the pain that awaited her.
By 10:45 Will had run out of excuses, and he reluctantly
motioned to his nurse, Beverly Timmons, and said, “Bev, send
Edith in.”
A few seconds later the door opened again, but it wasn’t Edith.
It was Nurse Timmons instead with a big smile on her face.
“Mrs. Edith and that Thorndale woman are praying at the
moment, Doctor,” she reported. “I believe our waiting room is
about to become a delivery room again. I think another new birth
is taking place.”
You see, Bev Timmons understood. She had become a
Christian herself in one of Dr. Phillips’ treatment rooms, about
two years before. She was taking Edith Berns’ pulse at the time,
and out of the clear blue sky, Edith had asked her;
“Bev, do you believe in Easter?”
“Of course I do,” Bev had answered. “I love Easter. Now lie
still, Mrs. Berns.”
“Oh, I do, too,” Edith had continued, “What do you believe
about Easter?”
Bev would have been annoyed, but you just couldn’t be
annoyed by Edith Berns.
“Well, I believe it’s a day of joy!” Bev had responded.
“Indeed it is,” Edith went on, “Indeed it is. Why is that, Bev?
Why is it such a day of joy?”
Lovingly, Edith had framed question after question that
ultimately led to the one question in life that leads to the answer.
“Is there life after life in your life?” she had asked lovingly, “Do
you know for sure about Easter?”
That afternoon, Beverly Timmons had experienced the reality
of Easter . . . and had never been the same since.
So the drama being re-enacted in Will Phillips’ waiting room
was nothing to be taken lightly to Bev. She knew it was a matter
of life and death.
But in a matter of minutes Edith Berns came scurrying down
the hallway, Bible in hand, her big black purse over her shoulder,
and a smile on her face so wide it even tested those wrinkles that
her godly smiles had already formed.
“Is Mrs. Thorndale in the family?” Bev asked as she hugged
her spiritual mother.
“Oh my yes,” Edith answered, “I completely forgot. She just
discovered Easter. You go out and tell her you’re a Christian, too.
And give her one of these,” Edith went on, as she pulled from her
huge handbag which was half purse and half Christian bookstore
a booklet she had written herself for her newborn spiritual babies.
It was entitled, Either side of Easter!
“And tell her I’ll call her tonight,” Edith added. “Now run
along, Child, I must see if this dynamic doctor of ours is spending
enough time in the Word.”
With that, she winked at the young physician as if to assure
him she would always be there to look after him, which didn’t
make his job any easier.
“Doctor, Doctor,” Edith began before Will could so much as
open his mouth. “You look troubled! Didn’t Jesus tell you to be
anxious for nothing? I’m afraid you’re spending too much time
working and not enough time praying,” Edith exclaimed. “Paul
said to pray about everything and God’s peace will flood your
soul.
“You need to get a day alone with your Jesus,” she went on,
“then you’ll be in control of your practice instead of your practice
controlling you.”
“Edith!” the doctor interrupted. “Just which one of us is the
doctor? I appreciate your diagnosis. I’ll take it to heart. Now let’s
talk about yours!”
It came out so fast, Will stunned himself! He was so burdened
that he had been abrupt with the very person he was burdened
for. “Forgive me, Edith,” he asked sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to
be sharp, but I do have something very important to talk to you
about.”
With that, both parties were back at the starting gate, and
Dr. Phillips began his painful conversation.
“Edith,” he began, “we got your test reports back last night.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the results are more traumatic
than I had even imagined. You complain so little about pain and
seem so happy all the time, I never expected to see the disease
so far advanced.” Doctor Phillips dropped his head at this point.
“Will, are you alright?” Edith asked. “Bless your heart! Son,
you don’t think God up and made a mistake, do you?”
With that, the good doctor jerked his head nearly out of its
socket and stared in disbelief at this incredible woman.
“My, my Will, I’m surprised at you!” Edith went on. “I’m just
fixin’ to rush into the arms of my Jesus, see my dear husband
again, worship with all my friends who went and beat me to
heaven—
I’m about to spend eternity in Heaven doing the one
thing I love the most — celebrating Easter — and you’ve got a
face so long your chin’s gonna get run over by a grasshopper. I’m
gettin’ sent home at last, and you’re afraid to give me my ticket?
Shame on you, Will Phillips!”
“Praise God! An eternal Easter!” she went on,
“How long do I have to wait?”
With that, the big doctor broke out into a grin himself,
relieved at the unexpected turn of events, and answered almost
triumphantly,
“About six months I’d say, Edith. I’d say you’ve about six
months to wait.”
Suddenly, he was gaining her perspective of death, and it
made so much sense he was excited.
Edith thought for a second. “Well, then, I’d like an appointment
to see you at least twice a week,” she announced. “At least twice
a week!”
Will interrupted rather firmly.
“Edith! I’m the doctor, remember?
“Now I’d like to see you about — about — twice a week,” he
stammered. “How’d you know that, anyway?”
“I didn’t,” she chuckled, “but I need that many days a week
in your waiting room to fish for souls. Only the Lord could be so
good — a ready-made fish pond and a soft leather sofa to boot! At
least twice a week,” Edith went on, “at least twice a week!”
“Twice a week will be fine,” Dr. Phillips replied, “just fine!”
“And Edith,” his long face beginning to return, “there, uh,
there, uh, will be . . ….——
“Pain?” Edith said the word for him.
“Yes,” Will responded, ashamed that he couldn’t say it himself.
“It will be nothing like the pain my Jesus suffered for me.”
Edith quietly added, “Paul said we must suffer with Him if we’re
to reign with Him. I only pray that my pain might honor Him,”
Edith went on, “and that I might never become bitter or angry.
Will, I have a good bit of that pain already,” Edith continued.
“I thought maybe you did,” the doctor acknowledged.
“And you know what?” she added, “It’s caused me to trust Him
even more. Will, you’re a marvelous doctor and a precious friend.
Thank you for making this such a special day,” she concluded as
she rose to her feet.
Will had no answer for that! He had given many patients bad
news before, but he’d never been thanked for making their day
special by doing so.
“God bless you, Edith,” he blurted out, and that was all he
could manage to say.
The next few weeks were a little like Pentecost in Dr. Phillips’
waiting room. The first week Edith came for her two visits as
expected, but she came about an hour early so she could be
sure to talk to somebody about Easter. But by the second week,
Brenda noticed that Edith was appearing every morning, whether
she had an appointment or not.
She’d bring in her knitting and her big black purse stuffed
with New Testaments and books to give away, and she’d bring a
lunch so she wouldn’t have to leave at noon when the working
women came in to get their flu shots. She’d just spend the day!
Brenda asked Dr. Phillips what she should do about it, and
he replied, “Be sure she has some iced tea to go with her lunch
and pray that God will send just the right people to sit on that
couch. God has sent a short-term but full-time missionary right
into our waiting room,” he nodded in amazement. “What a great
God we have!”
So on through the Christmas season, Edith Berns sat on that
couch in Will Phillips’ office and talked about Easter and Jesus,
and scarcely a day would go by that someone didn’t discover the
reality of Easter.
Dr. Will’s office was closed, of course, for the New Years
weekend. When they reopened on January third, Brenda kept
her electronic window in high gear as the waiting room loaded up
with patients.
More than a few of those openings were to allow Brenda to
peer cautiously towards that sofa on the west wall to see if that
amazing lady with the big black purse and the even bigger smile
would be manning her post as usual as God’s ambassador for
Easter.
But this day as the clock on Brenda’s desk moved towards
lunch time, Edith Easter, as they had come to affectionately call
her, still was nowhere in sight. They had tried to call her house,
but they got no answer.
It was about 2:30 in the afternoon when the phone finally
rang. “Hello, Dr. Phillips’ office,” Brenda answered. “He’s with a
patient just now. Who shall I say is calling? Mercy Hospital?
“Yes, Edith Berns is our patient. She’s where? Is she . . . is
she . . . alright? I see. Yes, of course, just a minute. I’ll call the
Doctor.”
Dr. Phillips hurriedly picked up the phone.
“Will,” said the cheery but a bit impatient voice on the other
end of the phone, “Will, this is Edith!
“My old body is sending me signals that are saying Edith,
I think God wants you to tell your Easter story down at Mercy
Hospital for awhile. I didn’t want to bother you, so I took a cab,
but this young lady in admitting won’t let me in without an
authorization from a certified M.D. You are certified, aren’t you
Will?” she chuckled.
“Then tell this nice lady to assign me to a room with two beds.
And tell ‘em to keep sending me ladies for roommates that need
to hear the Easter story, will you, Will? And Will, you tell Bev
I’m assigning that couch on the west wall to her. Tell her God’s
moving me on to new territory.
“I’m gettin’ closer to home, Will,” she whispered, “I’m gettin’
closer to home!”
“Let me speak to the lady, Edith,” Dr. Phillips responded, a
bit emotionally, “I’ll see that you get that room with two beds, one
for you, and one for whatever ladies God wants you to tell about
Easter.”
I guess it goes without saying that the 8th floor of Mercy
Hospital had never experienced anything quite like the presence
of Edith Berns. It was obvious she was in a great deal of pain,
but you never once heard it mentioned — she only talked about
Easter!
“Weeping endures for a night,” she would tell her roommates.
“Oh, but joy comes in the morning!”
Nearly every week a new patient would be moved into Room
824, and nearly always when they left, they left with a song in
their hearts, a song planted there by Edith Easter.
The nurses soon sensed an aura of joy in Room 824, too, a joy
that they couldn’t explain, so you would often find that whenever
it got a little slow on the floor, they would gravitate towards Edith
Easter’s room.
All of them, that is, but one! The head nurse on the evening
shift, one Phyllis Cross, who seemed to perfectly live up to her
name, intentionally kept her distance from Edith. She would
refer to her as that “religious nut in 824”, and, in general, seemed
determined not to let Edith’s Easter story rub off on her.
There was a time or two when no one else was available to
give Edith her medicine, and Phyllis was forced to go in. But even
then she maintained her icy composure and refused to respond
to Edith’s cheerfulness with so much as a smile.
It was a Monday night late in February, and Edith had taken
a turn for the worse. An infection had set in, and her temperature
had skyrocketed. Around the clock care was ordered, and being
two nurses short, Phyllis Cross herself drew the duty in Room 824.
Edith was in great pain and nearly delirious from the fever,
but somehow when Phyllis entered the room, she managed an
incredible smile and took the nurse’s hand, and squeezing it with
what little strength she had left, whispered, “I love you, Phyllis,
and I’m praying for you.”
Now Phyllis Cross was one tough woman. She had been a
head nurse in a military unit for 11 years and worked as head
nurse in the emergency room for 16 years before that. She had
been through three marriages and lived through several personal
tragedies. Her face was hardened by the ravages of time and
temper. Her eyes possessed a quality of iciness that indicated that
all of life was cold and calculated. Whatever fire of warmth that
might once have been there had long since been extinguished.
In all her years on the 8th floor at Mercy, no one had ever seen
her shed a tear; but when that dying woman, whom she had so
avoided, squeezed her hand and said, “I love you, and I’m praying
for you,” something inside of her began to melt.
The irony of it all was more than Phyllis could bear. Here
was a dying woman (with no hope) praying for her! Somehow it
seemed as though it should have been the other way around.
But, of course, Phyllis and prayer were not compatible terms.
The mechanical nurse, as they called her, sat down by Edith’s
bed and squeezing her hand said, “Thanks dear, but there’s no
use praying for me. God gave up on me a long, long time ago.”
“No he hasn’t!” Edith answered, almost defiantly, “and I’ve
asked Him not to take me home until you’re in the fold, too!
All these nurses look up to you, but you’re not looking up at
all! You’ve done a lot of livin’, Phyllis, but you’ve never really
experienced life!”
“If you’re asking your God to keep you alive until I’m in the
fold,” Phyllis responded, “either He’s gonna let you down or you’re
going to be the oldest patient in the history of this hospital.
Religion has never done a thing for me.”
“I love you,” Edith said again, “and God loves you, Phyllis. Oh,
how God loves you.”
Phyllis froze, expecting this incredible spirit to toss out her
Easter question at any moment. It was almost as if Edith sensed
that, and knowing the time was not right, she saved that question
for the perfect moment.
“I love you,” she said one more time, and with that, Phyllis
Cross muttered something about needing to check another patient
and slipped hurriedly out the door. This woman’s very presence
was more than she could handle. She had watched patient after
patient assigned to bed two of Room 824 leave that hospital
transformed. She had seen four of her nurses demonstrably
changed from spending time with Edith Berns after their shift
was over .
In fact, the greetings on her floor among the staff were as often
handclasps and “Happy Easter” as they were “Good morning.”
Something miraculous was happening on the 8th floor. To some
degree it irritated her, yet still something inside of her wondered if
this delightfully different dying woman did not have the answers
that had so eluded her about the real meaning of life. And the
stream of visitors that literally flowed in and out of that room
— all of them so joyful! All of them so encouraging! All of them
greeting her with “Happy Easter, Edith!” They talked about her
being their “spiritual mother,” and many referred to “that day” on
the couch in Will Phillips’ waiting room.
Something truly remarkable was happening in Room 824.
The question Phyllis Cross had to answer was, “Am I going to be
touched by it? Or avoid it at any cost?” For truly, you had to work
at it to avoid being touched by it.
It was late in March when Phyllis Cross could contain herself
no longer. Early one morning, just after her shift had ended,
almost uncontrollably, she was drawn to walk into room 824
before she went home.
The streams of sunlight that flooded the room heightened the
beauty of the wall to wall floral arrangements that kept pouring
into Edith Easter’s room, but the brightest light that morning
was in Edith’s eyes. It was almost as though she had never been
sick. Oh, the pain was still there! But you seemed to sense that
the fragrance of victory made the pain almost of no consequence.
“Good morning, Phyllis,” Edith beamed, “I was expecting you.”
“You were?” Phyllis answered, but she never got around to
asking why. Instead, she sat down on the edge of Edith’s bed and
just blurted out,
“How come you’ve never asked me about Easter?”
The godly old woman smiled and squeezed Phyllis’ hand. “I
was waiting for you to ask me,” Edith answered, “and now you
have!
“Phyllis, do you believe in Easter?”
“I guess I don’t,” Phyllis Cross replied. “At least not the way
you do.
“I’ve always celebrated Easter; always gone to church. I always
gave my children Easter eggs. I’ve always celebrated Easter . . .”
“Ah, but Phyllis,” Edith asked, her big blue eyes literally aglow,
“you have celebrated Easter, but have you experienced Easter?
“Phyllis, do you really believe in life after death?
“Do you believe your real life is yet to be lived when this life
is over?
“Phyllis, do you believe that the real reason for this life is to
store up treasures for the next — treasures of lives that have
been touched by yours?”
“Not really,” the aging nurse replied, “not really!”
“Do you believe in the death of Christ?” Edith went on
intensely, but gently.
“Of course,” Phyllis answered, almost relieved that she could
give a “yes” answer to something.
“Then will you read something for me?” Edith quickly
responded, as she pulled out a Bible so worn it looked like it had
been used to test the endurance of paper and asked Phyllis to
read from I Corinthians, chapter 15.
“Begin with verse 3!” she said.
Phyllis read these words,
3 For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also
received, how that Christ died for our sins according to
the Scriptures.
4 And that He was buried, and that He rose again the
third day according to the Scriptures.
5 And He was seen of Cephas, then of the twelve,
6 After that He was seen of about five hundred brethren
at once.
“Don’t you see, Phyllis,” Edith interrupted her momentarily,
“The whole gospel is the gospel of Easter.
“Jesus died for our sins, just as the Scripture says.
“He died on the cross so Phyllis Cross could have eternal life.
“Phyllis, do you know you have eternal life?
“Do you know that Jesus Christ lives in your heart right now?
“Have you ever acknowledged to God that your sins nailed
Jesus to that tree and asked Him to forgive you and come into
your life?
“Oh, Phyllis, that’s Easter! He died for your sins according to
the Scriptures, He rose again so you could never die. Read verse
13, Phyllis.”
Phyllis read,
13 If there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ
not risen:
14 And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching in
vain, and your faith is also vain.
19 If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of
all men most miserable.
20 But now is Christ risen from the dead and become
the firstfruits of them that slept.
Edith’s eyes met Phyllis’ head on.
“Phyllis, you have celebrated Easter for years, but you can
experience Easter for the first time this morning. Jesus Christ
is waiting to be resurrected in your life — to give you a taste of
Heaven on your way to heaven — where you will celebrate Easter forever!”
For the first time in years, tears began to roll down the cheeks
of Phyllis Cross as she knelt beside the bed of the first person
in years who had told her they loved her, and she asked Edith’s
friend Jesus to become her Saviour and her friend as well. As she
rose from her knees, Phyllis Cross glowed with a joy she had been
certain would never be hers.
“Do you know what day this is, Phyllis?” the sweet old saint
asked.
“It’s Good Friday!” Phyllis answered.
“And do you know what day it is for you?” Edith asked.
“It’s Easter!”
“Happy Easter, Phyllis, Happy Easter!”
With a clasp of the hands that seemed to signify a bond that
would last for eternity, Phyllis Cross literally ran from Room 824
a new person. For the first time in her life, she was really
celebrating Easter!
It was late that evening when Phyllis returned to duty on
the 8th floor of Mercy Hospital. There was a spring in her step
she had never experienced before. The smile on her face seemed
almost out of place, yet it was incredibly welcomed by the rest of
the staff.
She came to work not only with a spring in her step and a
smile on her face, but with an armful of Easter lilies for that
special lady in Room 824.
As soon as she had checked on all the emergencies that seemed
to always wait for her arrival, she rushed, flowers in hand, into
Edith Easter’s room. She tiptoed as soon as she realized Edith
was asleep, as always, with an open Bible in her lap.
There was a beautiful smile on Edith’s face — you could tell
she had fallen asleep reading from what she called “God’s love
letter to her.” It was open to John, chapter 14, and underlined
with a bold, yellow marker were these words:
I go to prepare a place for you, and if I go to prepare
a place for you I will come again and receive you unto
myself, that where I am, there ye may be also.
Phyllis’ smile broadened. For some strange reason, she
reached down and took Edith’s hand and squeezed it. Only then
did she realize — Edith Berns was home at last!
As she reached down to take the Bible from her, she realized
that Edith’s other hand was slipped in between the pages of
Revelation chapter 21, where she had carefully underlined verse 4.
It read,
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,
and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor
crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the
former things are passed away.
Phyllis Cross looked down and started to speak to the lifeless
body that lay before her. Then suddenly, she looked straight
up instead, and shouted at the top of her voice, “Happy Easter,
Edith! Happy Easter!”
One thought raced through her mind and caused her to smile
even more as she moved quietly towards the hallway. It was
Edith’s vow, “I’ve asked God not to take me home until Phyllis is
in the fold.” God had kept His word — and just in time for Easter.
As Phyllis walked down the narrow hallway to the nurses
lounge, the words “they need someone to look up to” kept ringing
in her ears.
Entering the room, she saw two brand new nurse’s aides who
had just finished their first shift at the hospital. They were busily
chatting, mostly discussing how they would each spend Easter
Sunday.
Phyllis glanced around the room, studying their faces, then
quietly she said,
“Hello girls, I’m Phyllis Cross. May I ask you a question?”
“Do you believe in Easter?”
“I mean really believe?”
You can count on one thing. Before she left the room that day,
they did.
Do you?
Mossbank, San Antonio, TX 78230
210-226-0000 or 1-800-375-7778 www.dtm.org l dtm@dtm.org l © Russell Kelfer
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