“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