“We have thought, O God, on Your loving kindness, in the midst of Your temple.  According to Your Name, O God, so is Your praise to the ends of the earth; Your right hand is full of righteousness.”  Psalm 48:9-10

 

When my grandmother was placed in a nursing home, her children had been told that she had little time left.  She had been placed on hospice in the hospital and that transferred with her to the facility.  All of it happened quite suddenly.  What seemed like a simple fall became a death sentence for her to many.

But my grandmother has always been quite feisty and independent. Before all of this, she had long lived alone.  Cleaning her home.  Venturing to garage sales.  Mowing her grass until her hips had to be replaced.  She gardened, grew tomatoes, liked to chat, smoked constantly, and absolutely loved going to church on Sundays. My grandfather had passed away a couple of decades before and so have most of her friends.  She has even lost two children as others came and went.

So, while on hospice in the facility, it became very trying on us to watch her decline in such an unnatural way.  She didn’t really appear to be dying on her own accord, but rather she was becoming ever so dehydrated and weak from the protocol that was advised in her case. Being that she was very independent, God raised up independent thinking advocates who began to inquire whether the quick assessment that she was dying was actually correct.  After diligent discussions and prayer, we removed her from hospice and transferred her care to the nursing home solely.  Much to their surprise and our relief, she slowly regained strength and awareness. She began to eat and drink.  In the beginning, she still slept a lot but started to have more moments of wakefulness.

And it was in one of those moments, early on, that I was given a gift…one of many that periodically come.

I visited her one evening about eight weeks after the whole ordeal had begun.  I was delighted to find her with her eyes open and an awareness on her face that reassured me that she knew who I was.  I said, “Oh grandma, I am so glad to see you awake!” as I took up her hand.  She pressed her other hand on top of mine and said, “I am glad too!  I need to talk to you about what has happened?  My things.  How did I get here and where am I at?”

I spent the next twenty minutes guiding her through the events of those last two months, skipping the unnecessary details.  While she was confused, she was relieved to find some understanding and a familiar face.  At one point, she eagerly exclaimed, “I am hungry!”  I offered to get her some food, and told her again on my way out of the room to the kitchen, “I am so glad I caught you awake!!”  I am not sure I will ever forget her face, her hand raised in the air, or the words that came out of her mouth next, “Better yet, I am ALIVE!!!”

Now living in a facility isn’t the most pleasant of circumstances.  It is not that she resides at a bad facility.  Quite the contrary; they are very good and very caring.  But, it is a place that many come to die, not live.  Freedom becomes defined differently than what many of us know on a healthy, youthful day.  While she has now returned to a certain level of independence–she has gone from being bedridden to freely wheeling herself around the halls and rooms of this facility–she cannot leave.  And so, there are days where the sadness outweighs the happiness…the boredom and lack of the familiar pile over what little good that happens.

But every once in awhile, when I catch her up and awake, her smile and gratefulness to see me again is overwhelming to my soul.  It hit me after leaving from a visit one day that maybe this trial, this need to tend to her–to be there for her, isn’t fully about duty and kindness to family.  Maybe, just maybe, God is offering me the chance to make new memories with her that will replace the old.  New smiles and levels of caring I had not experienced nor given.  Better memories, if you will, that might fade the old and indifferent ones…

Had she been gone too soon, I would have had no late night talks to remember.  No special grins or words of delight.  No memories of her reaching up to hold my face and tell me that I am beautiful.  No wiping away my tears, the evening of the day that my mother-in-law had unexpectedly passed.  She had seen my face and a look of questioning had fallen across hers.  When I tearfully shared that I had lost someone dear to me, her comforting words gave me a glimpse of heaven in action as she ever-so-gently said, “I know.”

Without this time, I would have had no chance to advocate for her.  No opportunities to reassure and remind her of those who care.  No chance to make her smile, to help her find moments to still laugh and delight, to ensure a better quality life with where she is at in her journey.  Truly, a level of caring that I had not seen from her before, nor do I think she ever saw from me. And now, even when she’s not entirely present in mind during a visit, I have come to appreciate the gift of just her presence. Something I had not really known before all of this.

My friends, try hard not to gauge reaching out to help another based on your perceived idea of closeness.  Instead, look at the opportunity as holding the potential to venture somewhere new; a journey–not always easy or desired–that you cannot comprehend or understand until you actually decide to walk the uncharted path and discover its richness…

“Walk about Zion, and go all around her.  Count her towers; mark well her bulwarks; consider her palaces; that you may tell it to the generation following.  For this is God, our God forever and ever; He will be our guide even to death.”  Psalm 48:12-14 (NKJ)

 

“Then He said to His disciples, ‘The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few.  Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.'”  Matthew 9:37-38

Last night, I had an endearing moment in the most unexpected place.  A bit of a reminder of how God uses us in all sorts of ways–simple ways–when are our hearts are willing.

My grandmother now resides in a skilled nursing facility near me.  By God’s grace, when she became unable to live independently anymore, the one remaining spot in this facility was available for her to take.

My grandma and I were not particularly close when I was growing up.  I saw even less of her as an adult.  When her health declined, I was asked to guide her and the remaining family–in part because of my experiences and training–through the end stages of her care and life.  It turns out, the end wasn’t so near.

Due to my training, I stressed how important active and consistent advocacy is for a loved one.  And when an opening occurred so close, I firmly knew God was answering a prayer of mine…that she be close in proximity to someone who could advocate for her.  I just didn’t expect to be the one physically closest to her.

But I am not in this alone.  My cousin, whose mom passed away shortly after my dad, stepped up.  Both of our parents were our grandmother’s children.  My aunt, her only remaining daughter, has also been advocating for her.  We take turns, in sorts, checking on the status of things and visiting, participating in care meetings and managing how she is treated.  She has lived much longer than anyone has expected.

Since I am closer, I often make an evening visit to make sure she is in bed or to see how the day has gone.  I have become well acquainted with the staff and those residents who are out when I visit, familiar with their names and a bit of their stories.

Quite some time ago, an older gentleman came to the facility.  He has the deepest, saddest eyes.  I learned his name, in the beginning, because the staff would often have to remind him–by name–that he needed to stay seated.  Sometimes, during a visit, I would see his wife and maybe an adult child sitting with him quietly.  His wife would be tenderly holding his hand.

And so, in my visits, if he was out, I would say, “Hi Virgil” as I walked by.  Sometimes he would smile.  Sometimes he would nod.  Occasionally he would give a little wave.  Less frequently, a blank stare into space.  No great effort on my part.  Just a hello coupled with his name.

Last night as I was leaving, I walked by and said the same words again, but this time, he motioned for me to come back.  I turned around and did so, and as I drew closer, he asked my name.  “Michelle,” I said with a smile on my face.  His eyes looked confused, and he shook his head like that name didn’t ring a bell.

I leaned over and quietly said, “I come to visit my grandma, and in doing so, I learned your name.  You don’t know me, but I have been saying ‘hi’ as I go by.”  He asked how long she had been in the facility, and I shared that with him.  He then shared how long he had been there.  In more words than I had ever heard him speak, he told me that he was hoping he would get better and be able to leave.  A hope they all long for…

As I stood back up, he went back to the hello with these words that struck my soul, “You’ve really helped me…made it easier to be here.  It has truly helped me get through and has meant a lot.”  Those sad eyes looking deeply into my soul letting me know the power behind a simple hello.  A confirmation that it is important to them that you know they exist and know their name…that it gives hope in the darkness of their trial.

Again, I smiled and slowly nodded as I quietly thanked God for those nudges to say “Hello, Virgil.”  As I looked up and saw several other residents sitting in the various places waiting to be put to bed, I wondered how many others experience someone walking by as if they don’t exist.  No eye contact.  No acknowledgment.  No brief interaction to let them know we understand that they are there, trapped inside…for some.  And for most, no real options out of where they are.

And so, I pondered how often does this exist in our everyday interactions, or lack thereof, outside of those walls?

My friends, it takes as little as two words to mean something to someone else.  To convey mercy, to give empathy, and to awaken hope…

“But if you had known what this means, ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless.”  Matthew 12:7