Annabelle’s Bowl

“Hello; my name is Annabelle Miller,” said the woman at my door. Sweat glistened on her forehead and upper lip, and she seemed to have difficulty breathing after her walk up our long walkway. But her eyes twinkled in direct contrast to her obvious lack of physical health. “You may know my husband, Floyd,” she continued. “I don’t get out to church much, but he told me about your family’s car accident. I thought you might enjoy these.”

Annabelle handed me a bowl of chilled, fresh raspberries lightly sprinkled with sugar. I was so flustered at this unexpected visit from an unknown ward member that all I could say was “Thank you. I’ll return your bowl as soon as possible.”

“Never mind about that, dear,” she said. “It’s just an odd little bowl that doesn’t match anything. You can keep the bowl if you’d like. Just enjoy the berries and have a good day.”

All afternoon I kept thinking about Sister Miller’s visit, and when my husband came home, I told him about it. He had served in the elders quorum with Brother Miller, and he said that Sister Miller had several medical problems that prevented her from attending church.

The next Sunday, I brought the little glass bowl to church with me. I had tucked a thank-you note inside it, and I planned to ask Brother Miller to take it home to his wife.

But much to my shock, the bishop announced that Sister Miller had passed away and that funeral services were to be held in our chapel the following week. I sat through the remainder of the sacrament meeting in stunned silence. Annabelle hadn’t even known me, but one of her last acts on earth had been to show her concern by bringing me a bowl of raspberries. Words could not describe my feelings.

My husband and I attended the funeral. The chapel was filled. I heard countless people tell of the lovely things Annabelle had done for them. She seemed to have had a sensitivity to others’ needs, knowing what to do and when to do it. At Annabelle’s funeral, I grew to know her and to admire her gift for sharing.

Week after week, the little bowl sat on my kitchen counter. I had tried to return it. I had dropped by Brother Miller’s home a few times, and I had even brought it to church, but somehow I always missed him.

A few months after Annabelle’s death, my husband’s job required us to move to a different city. In the flurry of packing and moving, the bowl was temporarily forgotten—until I came across it one day as I was unpacking. My first reaction was guilt. Then I vividly remembered Annabelle’s telling me to “keep the bowl if you’d like. Just enjoy the berries.”

So we kept the odd little bowl, Annabelle’s bowl, and we have used it countless times during the last five years to bring goodies to others, just as Annabelle did. I feel that each time I use Annabelle’s bowl, her gift of sharing lives on.