Am I an Evergreen?

     Bernice is an evergreen, freshness wafting from her boughs even though she’s ninety-five.
     If my mother-in-law isn’t rolling out Norwegian lefsa bread with an alcoholic woman to give her something productive to do, she’s encouraging a man whose wife was brutally murdered to let go of bitterness “or it’ll destroy you.”
​     I’ve known Bernice for decades, and during that time her guest bedroom has been open to college students searching for a home-away-from-home, and her kitchen to hitchhikers her son picked up who needed a meal. In her nineties, she attended a rock concert for the induction of nephews into a hall of fame because she “wouldn’t miss it.”

WELCOMING
     
     Why does she always make room for others? Perhaps because she grew up the eighth child in a Great Depression family, the one who slept at the bottom of the bed; there was no other place. I wonder if she identifies with the world’s Savior whose first bed was an animal feed box because there was no room for him in the inn.
​     When that baby born in a stable grew up, he promised he’d prepare a place in a heavenly mansion for people like Bernice. Plenty of room there. Plenty of space for those she’s always inviting to join in the upcoming celestial bash. A celebration for those who never feel totally welcome in this world, yet roll out the red carpet for others.
​     Bernice’s steps are unsteady now. She bends over a cane. Her hearing limits her. Yet she still grins and greets others. I can’t think of an excuse to not do the same. So who can I welcome today?