Nursing Home Ministry

When my mother had a stroke some fourteen months ago, not only was her life thrown into a new season, but so was ours as a family. Whereas we were able to keep Daddy at home during his years of decline, it became impossible to do so with Mom, and my brothers and I made the difficult decision of having her placed in a nursing home … with the caregiver that had been by hers and Daddy’s side while at home still giving her assistance and company at her new residence. 

But it has also meant an almost daily visit on my part to check in on her and to visit. Over the past year, I have been her school mate; her sister; her mother; and yesterday, I was indeed her daughter. I have to admit that at times there has been a great sadness that has pricked my heart when she doesn’t remember me as one she birthed, but at the same time, whoever I am to her that day, she is always glad to see me. She knows me as somebody important in her life, and whoever that is, I play the part on that particular day.

Another aspect of my visits is getting to know other residents there. Unless I already know them, I never enter their rooms, but often their chair or bed has been pushed into the hall. My first encounter was Mom’s next door neighbor, Mrs. Peggy. She was bed ridden, in a fetal position, and wore a stocking cap. On one particular day, I stopped to chat with her a moment and told her it was a good day for staying inside because it was raining cats and dogs outside. And then that sweet little lady began singing in the most lovely of voices, “April showers bring May flowers.” Two full verses. I just about came undone. Only a few weeks later, I turned the corner and I saw the paramedics rolling Mrs. Peggy out; her daughter instructing them, “She has a DNR.” I blessed Mrs. Peggy as she rolled by. It was the last time I saw either of them.

On the other side of Mom’s room was a man whose name now escapes me. What began as both him and his wife sitting outside his room became just her while he lay in his bed. His form took the shape of my own Daddy’s who had died just weeks prior: the way he held his hands; the way he reached. I was still so raw and it was so hard to watch. But I would stop and talk to his wife, learning that her husband had once been a researcher of sorts and had written several books. In her eyes, he was a brilliant man. She was going to bring me one his publishings; but he passed away before she had the opportunity.

Then there was Mrs. Jane across the hall who had lain in that bed longer than anyone should have to. I had known her since I was a young girl so I felt comfortable and welcomed by the family to enter and talk with her. She was never able to communicate except for the slight movement she made when she heard my voice telling her how beautiful she was. Gratefully, she, too, has entered her Rest.

If Mr. Emery’s door was open when I passed, I would speak to him as well. He was a man well-loved by my daddy. One day there was a note on his door that read, “I’m not feeling well today. Please come back another time.” A day or two later the note was gone and I was glad he was feeling better; only to read his obituary a few days later. 

Amber was different. She wasn’t old but very young and discarded by family. I had met her when my sister-in-law would go get her and bring her to church. She liked me, I think, because she liked Tesa and Louis. They were so kind to her. And so I would share a few minutes with her often as she sat under the watchful eye of the nurses desk. Fortunately, her social worker from Atlanta took an interest in Amber and took her to a residence near her; but not before she was baptized in holy water. Amber was so excited to show me the video of that moment. There was such joy in that for both of us.

It was a delight when I rolled Mom into her room that very first day to see Mr. Herbert there. He was a good friend to my parents and the one that drove my daddy to Fort McPherson that last time before heading oversees. Daddy had asked him to go so he could drive my mother home. Mr. Herbert admitted that she cried all the way, just as Daddy had suspected. It’s always good to visit with Mr. Herbert, but it’s even more fun to watch him and Mom visit. They always hold hands while doing so.

Miriam is my sister-in-law’s mother and has been there since 2018 when she, too, had a stroke. Communication is not easy, but she always smiles and, like the others, is glad for company. I have to do all the talking, but as anyone who is reading this knows, I do not lack for words.

More recently I have come to know Mr. Terry, a man not much older than myself. And no family. I would always speak when I walked by, and whereas he would look at me, I never got a response. Then he began to give me a nod; and finally, one day, he actually spoke. From there we have gone to conversations about him; about me. And he even sold me a Wilson’s bakery chocolate donut with sprinkles this past week for a quarter. He was trying to make a little money to play bingo, even though I tried to explain to him he didn’t need money. They gave HIM a quarter when he won. I like that he remembers and calls me by name; a man that once only looked at me.

A beautiful woman named Gloria has moved in next door to Mom. She seemed so happy that I stopped by and spoke to her as she sat outside her door last week. She has asked me to please come again … that it can get lonely.

On occasion, Mrs. Angie sports a nightgown that has campfires and s’mores on it. But even more than that, she always wears the biggest smile you have ever seen in your life. It’s a true joy to be on the recipient end of that. Of course, like many of these residents, she is quite hard of hearing and a lot of very loud talking goes on. She pulled me close last week, pointed her finger at my face and said, “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” I’m glad I know her. There was a “Precaution” sign on her closed door today. I’m concerned.

Mrs. Sara sits in her reclining chair in the hall … hugging her stuffed puppy. She smiles and jabbers to me, telling me all about him. I can’t make out a word she says, but it’s obviously something really good because of the excitement on her face. I just not nod and agree with the same joy she’s expressing.

And most recently I have met Mr. John, though he quickly told me to drop the “Mr.” I heard him call to me as I be-bopped down the hall last week to see Mom. He yelled, “Hey, can you help me?” I backed up and said, “What I can do for you?” He asked me to turn on his overhead lights for him, which I did. Then he surprised me by saying, “I’ve been trying to hem you up for a long time.” I took a quick look at the name on his door, and said, “Mr. John, you couldn’t handle me.” He responded, “I don’t know. I had a lot of training,” to which I just laughed. Oh, my goodness, one never knows what to expect. I’ve learned that as people age, they also lose some of their filtering. But I’m grateful for this new connection … and the joy it provided.

I would never want my readers to think I write this to exalt myself in any way. It’s just a testimony about where I am these days, literally and figuratively. I know for so many that nursing homes are not easy places to visit. I get that. And quite frankly, I have been thrown into it these days with little choice. However, I was fortunate to be a part of a church youth group that saw the importance of taking us regularly to sing and visit the elderly, ironically, at this very Home. I learned the “art” of being comfortable in such places. And I am so grateful.

And, yes, the residents do seem genuinely happy to see me, but the title “Nursing Home Ministry” is not about what I do for them. It’s what they have done and do for me. It is my heart and my step that is lighter when I leave that place. Each one of these named, and there will be more due to the reciprocal nature of a nursing home, gives me something different of themselves. I am so blessed to be on such a profound receiving end of God’s love offered by a group of people that many think have nothing left to give.

Theirs is truly a nursing home ministry.

Just an ordinary moment…

My Grandmother’s Apron

Unfortunately, my maternal grandmother, whom we called “Muh,” passed away when I was eight years old, being ill a number of years even before that. But there are still a few things I can recall about her when she was healthy. Like how she would say, “Much obliged,” when she would get out of the car after we had taken her to her hair appointment. Or the way she would swing with me on the large front porch of her home. Or the way she cared for my older brother and me when the twins were born. Or the way she gathered eggs from the hen houses. Or the way she fed anyone who showed up at her door … whether they be home folks who would stay awhile or drifters moving through via Highway 341. And to be considered what many would call poor, there was always plenty of food on that large oval table (the table that now sits in my own breakfast room); food that had come from her and my granddaddy’s land and the labor of their hands and backs. Ah, yes. I can still feel the sweat running down my back and the smell of corn as she and the other women “put up” vegetables from the garden. 

But the one thing that was distinct about my grandmother is that she always had an apron tied around her waist. It was not anything fancy by any means. Just a homemade piece of cloth she donned in the morning and took off before she went to bed. 

For most people, aprons are a thing of the past. Some might still wear them to protect their clothing in the kitchen while cooking, but a quick look in stores or online reveals a more decorative type wear. But for my grandmother and those of her generation, an apron was a tool. I imagine first and foremost it was to prevent soiling the dress, keeping the clothing from the wear and tear of washing. But she also used it to remove hot items from an oven or to pick up a warm pot or plate from the stove. She used it to dry her hands, dishes … as well as tears. Hers and others. And when gathering those eggs, she made it into a basket to tote them back to the house; or to gather the fallen apples or pears from the fruit trees in the yard. I have read that Susanna Wesley, mother to 18 children including Charles and John, would throw her apron over her head for a moment of silence and to pray. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that my grandmother did the same thing — though she only had two children.

In the New Revised Standard Version, 1 Peter 5:5 reads, “Clothe yourselves with humility.” The New Living Translation says, “Serve each other with humility.” But it’s The Passion Translation that brings it home, opens it up and gives it new light. “Wrap around yourself the APRON of a humble servant.” Ah, I had a perfect picture in that of my Muh.

In all the years that passed after she died, I never heard anyone who knew my grandmother speak an unkind word about her. In fact, it has been just the opposite. They haven’t been able to praise her enough. Maybe it all goes back to when she wrapped around herself that apron; the apron of a humble servant. For indeed she was. 

I kept one of Muh’s aprons. It is safely preserved in a drawer in my buffet in the dining room. Maybe I should go pull it out and tie it around my own waist.

Just an ordinary moment…