Friday, December 22, 2006

Dearest God,

I held her hands in mine, gingerly cutting each nail, careful not to knick her skin because she is on Coumadin. Then I washed them in a basin I placed on the bed, allowing her fingers to soak, then drying each one. I squeezed a dime-sized drop of lotion in my hands, then massaged her splotched, bruised, worn 90 year old hands. Her eyes were fixed on mine as we spoke.

Evadene is one of my favorite people. She's been moved to a nursing home in hopes that she will learn to walk again. She stood this week for the first time in a long time. She was really proud. She wants to walk. It will take every bit of effort she will be able to muster.

I brought her ice cream. We always eat an icy treat, this time Breyer's Pineapple and Coconut. While we were delighting in our favorite dessert, I read the label aloud, 13 g of fat, 8 g sat fat. "You're not supposed to read the labels." She told me. I put it down and we ate away, enjoying every biteful.

"I came to sing carols to you," I told this bright, well-traveled woman who still has all her faculties. What are your favorites?" She had to think. It's been years since she's been in church singing the hymns of Christmas. "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." She said. I hadn't expected that one. "Up on the housetop reindeers pause, out jumps good old Santa Claus..." In the next 15 minutes or so, I sang her beloved songs ending with "Silent Night, Holy Night." I sang that one with my eyes closed. Too holy to do anything else.

Then I prayed holding her hands one last time. We hugged and I kissed her cheek, she kissing mine. "Merry Christmas, Evadene." I cheerfully spoke as I waved goodbye.

Tears filled my eyes as I walked down the hallways filled with people living in their last home. "Merry Christmas!" I offered words of friendship. One African American man in a wheelchair smiled. "You have a wonderful smile." I told him.

What a privilege it is to visit a nursing home. Delicate, fragile persons who can no longer care for themselves live together, dependent on others. They are away from their own homes, their belongings and family. They are in the final stage of life. But they are not dead. They share what they can with one another.

They always teach me humility when I call upon them. Their simple lives remind me that we don't have to have all the things we have accumulated over a lifetime. We don't even have to live in a fine home or have to travel, own a car or eat the finest food. They have learned to live with just a few items, usually pictures of precious loved ones, a piece of furniture and a TV. Their little is much in their eyes.

Evadene will be 91 on her next birthday. She can hardly believe she has lived that long. We won't have many more years to visit. So we share like it is our last time. I tell her we at the church love her and she likes that. I hope she will walk so she can go back home. We've got more ice cream to eat. I love her.

Gracious God,
your children
are so precious.
The older we are,
the more beautiful we become.
We are rich with wisdom.
Simplicity keeps our minds
on the important things in life.
A brief visit
can last for weeks.
Memories hold us
until we meet again.
Love happens
in the nursing home.
Love captured me
once again.
I find Emmanuel
everywhere,
in the smiles of the elderly.
I don't have to go
to a mall
to see Santa
when I can see Jesus
in a nursing home.

Love to you, Andrea