Unto the Least of These

This article was written by my sister, Amanda Lancaster.

As I drove past the Grey Barn on Thursday afternoon, I spotted Glenda climbing the steps to the big glass doors, her arms full of flowers. My first thought was, Is there a rehearsal dinner tonight? Then I remembered—Sister Marian’s 70th birthday celebration was being held there later that evening. Dan and I had both been invited.

Just as the sun dipped behind the trees, we arrived. The windmill turned lazily in the field beside the barn, and dozens of people made their way toward the entrance, their arms filled with cards, cookies, and fruit. Inside, the candlelit glow flickered off the wooden beams, casting a warm and intimate light over the gathering. Then, Marian arrived.

The room erupted in applause. Tiny Sister Marian stood at the entrance, her hands clasped over her elbows, her thick glasses magnifying the delight in her eyes as she scanned the crowd. “Wow!” she exclaimed before weaving her way through the packed room to find her seat.

Tracing the Journey

After a delicious Mediterranean meal, Brother Derek stood and announced, “Now, let’s take a trip down memory lane.” The screen flickered to life, illuminating moments from Marian’s life—beginning with an image of a young woman in a park ranger uniform, a wide-brimmed hat perched on her head. She was 26 when she first encountered our church community in Colorado.

I still remember her at that stage. I was only five when she joined, and when I first saw her in church, I leaned over to my brother and whispered, “We have a new Sister Bonnie.” Like Sister Bonnie, she was tiny, with a vivacious smile and a special gift for connecting with children. We adored her and always hoped she’d be the one to babysit us. And over the years, she did—first us, then our children, and now some of our grandchildren.

As the slideshow continued, her closest friends appeared—Lisa, Drucilla, Theresa, Denise, Bonnie—steadfast companions throughout the decades. But her circle grew wider. Picture after picture revealed more faces, more laughter—friends on fishing trips, milestone birthdays, and generations gathered around her, tossing grapes in the air as she caught them in her mouth, sending waves of laughter through the room.

I lost count of how many newborn babies she had cuddled—mothers looking on proudly as “Aunt Maresy” welcomed their little ones. Again and again, images flashed of Marian visiting nursing homes, bringing flowers to an elderly woman, delivering goodies to a fading grandfather, spreading joy to her friends’ aging parents and grandparents.

A Family Woven by Love

Somewhere along the way, as I watched the images unfold, I felt my face wet with tears. Here was a woman who never married, yet she had cultivated a vast, loving, and devoted family. One generation, then the next, and the next—drawn to her simply because she had loved them, and they had loved her in return.

The video concluded with recorded messages from our churches around the world—South Africa, New Zealand, Israel, Virginia, the Netherlands. “We love you, Marian! You’ve meant so much to us. You’ve prayed for us. We couldn’t have made it without you.”

At the end, the room burst into cheers, and one by one, people stood to share what Marian had meant to them.

Melissa Knoll spoke of moving to Waco, finally realizing her dream of being part of the community, only to discover that her closest neighbors were Marian, Marcia, and Ariana. “I’d never had family nearby since I had a family of my own,” she said through tears. “And suddenly, I had two grandmothers for my children.” Marian and Marcia played with her children, taught them to garden, babysat them, and welcomed them into their home as if they were their own.

At night, Melissa’s children would press their faces to the window, watching for the sight of Marian’s headlights. And when she arrived home from a long shift at the church literature publication center, they would rush over in their pajamas to have tea with Aunt Maresy.

Then Esther stood up. As a struggling teenager, she had worked alongside Marian at the publishing house. “She always had a calendar with pictures of Ireland above her desk,” Esther recalled, “because she loved Ireland.” Three of Marian’s grandparents had immigrated from Ireland, and—fittingly—one grandfather had received his U.S. citizenship in Waco, Texas, decades before Marian ever found her way here!

Over time, Marian took Esther under her wing, even bringing her along on trips to visit family in Wisconsin. Esther shared stories of Marian’s many airport mishaps—forgetting scissors in her pocket after wrapping presents, setting off security alarms, and the never-ending game of Who has the phone and keys? between the two of them.

From person to person, the tributes continued—until Tim Tittley shared.

The Turkey Bacon Miracle

Marian had once been the babysitter for Tim's wife when she was a child, and now, to his own children, she was Aunt Maresy. “But the story I always think of happened just a couple of years ago, before one of our general conferences here in Waco,” he said.

A family from Israel was arriving for the conference, and late one night, Tim and his wife received word that they would need a place for breakfast the next morning. “We scrambled,” he said. “It was too late to go to the store, so we gathered what we could—eggs, biscuits, milk, cheese. But then my wife gasped—‘We don’t have bacon! What’s a good breakfast without bacon?’”

They called neighbor after neighbor—no one had any. It was too late to go to the grocery store. Just then, the phone rang.

It was Marian.

“Hi, Aunt Maresy,” Tim’s wife answered.

“Hi, how are you?” Marian said. “I hope I’m not calling too late, but I was just cleaning out my fridge and saw this package of turkey bacon. I don’t know why, but I felt like I should ask—would you want it for breakfast?”

Tim’s wife nearly dropped the phone. Marian had no idea they were hosting guests, no idea they’d been desperate for bacon. But somehow, she knew.

As the room erupted in laughter and applause, Dan leaned over to me and whispered, “That is how supernatural gifts of the Spirit are unlocked in a person’s life. It came simply because she was so connected in love, so motivated by life, that she perceived what Liz was needing and feeling.”

I knew he was right.

“You’re Related to Everyone Here”

In the middle of the celebration, Marian stood. Her white hair was twisted into a small bun, yet her presence was so youthful that it was hard to believe she was 70. She grinned. “Oh, I have to tell a story on myself.”

She recounted a recent visit to the overlook by the river bottom, where she struck up a conversation with a woman who had an accent. “I thought she was Israeli, but she was actually Hungarian. She looked at me suddenly and said, ‘I know who you are.’”

Marian laughed. “I told her, ‘No, you can’t know me.’”

“Yes,” the woman insisted. “You’re the one related to everyone here.”

Marian was baffled. “I told her, ‘That can’t be me. I came here single. I’m still single. I have no relatives here.’”

But the woman shook her head. “No, you’re the one. You used to be a park ranger in Colorado when you met this community. And now, you’re Aunt Maresy. You’re the aunt to many, the grandmother to some. You’re family to almost everyone I’ve met!”

Marian paused, her eyes twinkling. “And I laughed and said, ‘Well, yes, that must be me.’”

She hadn’t realized it was true until she said it aloud.

“Rejoice, O childless woman, you who have never given birth! Break into a joyful shout, you who have never been in labor! For the desolate woman now has more children than the woman who lives with her husband!” (Gal. 4:27).

“God sets the lonely in families” (Ps. 68:6).

The festivities came to a close as Marian opened a card from all of us who love her. Inside was a gift—an all-expenses-paid trip to finally see the green hills of her beloved Ireland.

Later that night, as Dan and I walked beneath the full moon, I turned to him and said, “Marian, and what she has done—and what has been done for her—is what it’s all about. I know in the depths of my heart that many are serving God today, believing in His love, because they first experienced love through her. And when we reach heaven, I know we’ll realize there are even more—lives touched, faith strengthened, hearts drawn to Him.

“Because Marian loved and cared for ‘the least of these His brothers,’ she demonstrated her love and care for God.”