Part 2 of 2
I leave there and drive across town to another assisted living facility another friend calls home. In May she will reach the century mark.
There are no doors to the rooms here, so I look in from the hallway and see that she is sleeping soundly. I enter the room and look around. Her Bible is open on the bed beside her along with a paperback novel. I kneel at her bedside and begin to recite the 23rd Psalm. I do not know if it is the disturbance of my voice or the familiarity of the words, but my friend wakens. So as to avoid any possible confusion, I look up at her and announce who I am. "It's your pastor." "Oh good, pastor. I was hoping you'd come by."
She raises herself and sits up on her bed and I move to sit beside her. The first thing she says is, "What do you get for turning 100?" "Oh, I don't know," I say, "breakfast I guess?" We laugh. "Probably," she says. I take the Bible lying beside her. "May I look at this?" She agrees and I thumb through the pages in the front where the family tree is recorded. "You come from Alabama?" "No. Florida. But I was born in New Jersey." "Jersey?" "Well, don't hold that against me. They're mostly the same." We then talk a little while about what her father did for a living, and about her daughters -- one of whom died a long time ago and the other who comes and has lunch with her mother every day. Without prompting, she then begins to tell me what a wonderful mother she herself had. I think back to my last visit at the other facility and about the other woman's mother. I know this friend's mother will be coming for her also. She will come with Jesus and all the angels. Maybe that's what she'll get when she turns 100.
I say a prayer and as I am walking out I hear the agitated cry of another woman in the room across the hall. "Help. Get me out of here," the voice yells.
As I walk into hallway I cross over to my friend's neighbor's room and peak my head in. "Hello ma'am," I say. "Hello," the woman says back, "can you get that walker and me out of here?" "I'm not sure I can do that; but maybe if you're okay with it I can sit down and we can talk a little while." "Okay," she says. I sit, introduce myself as a pastor. "Oh good," she says, "I need a pastor." "Well good," I say and ask the woman her name and where she's from. She's from Arkansas she tells me. "What part," I ask, "by Fayetteville or Little Rock or where?" "By Fayetteville," she says but she can't remember the name of the town. When I tell her my mother's family comes from Arkansas she smiles. "Up in Clinton; did you ever hear of Clinton, Arkansas?" "Oh yes I did," she says with a warm and familiar smile. "Were you raised in the church?" I ask. "Oh yes, First Methodist Church." "A Methodist? Alright," I say. "My great-great aunt Mary was a Methodist up there in Clinton. A great great woman in my mother's life, in her dad's life, and in my life too. She passed away just last summer and I miss her terribly." "I'm missing her too," the woman says, "she sounds wonderful. She reminds me of my mother."
We talk for a little longer. She has trouble with remembering where she is or where her family is, or even what century we are in. But there's a calmness in the room. I think of the old hymn, "There's a sweet, sweet spirit in this place; and I know that it's the presence of the LORD." I rise up from my seat and tell my new friend I must be going now but want to pray for her before I leave if that would be alright. "Oh yes, please," she says. I walk over to her recliner and standing over her I reach out my hands and touch her silver hair. I say the Lord's Prayer. At first it is just me. "Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name . . ." Soon enough however she joins her voice with mine. "Give us this day our daily bread . . ." At the doxology, I trail off allowing her to complete the prayer: "For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever." After we conclude, we both open our eyes and she looks up at me, "Thank you," she says, "you've made my day."
I say goodbye and walk out of her room and out of the facility into the bright light of the late-winter sun. I'm glad I paid these visits, I think to myself. I would have missed out not being here today.
As I make my way to the car and head back towards the office I remember the words I quoted at the eulogy for my Aunt Mary, words from Maya Angelou, another woman from the great state of Arkansas, and a spiritual mother to many generations: "They probably won't remember what you said, they might not even remember what you did, but they'll always remember how you made them feel."
They'll remember; and I'll remember too.
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