Sally Matheny
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| Hopeless despair |
Who loves to go
to the rest homes, the assisted living centers, the nursing homes? Whatever name you call them, they are
probably not on your list of favorite places to visit. The stench of urine, feces,
and death are not as difficult to endure as the weight of hopeless despair
lingering in the hallways.
Some people consistently serve here. For others, it’s a
constant internal struggle between our minds wanting to do what we’re
comfortable with, and our hearts doing what we know Christ wants us to do.
My husband, son,
and I recently visited a church member who lives in such a place. We always
enjoy our visits with Beth. We want to
minister to her but it’s not easy. As soon as we enter the building, the odors
welcome us. That doesn’t bother us as much as “the walk.”
In order to reach
Beth, we must walk two long hallways. Those who are able have parked themselves
on the sidelines in hopes of viewing something new, something fresh. They watch
those from the outside breeze through in their bright colors. Many of the residents’
bodies deny them a view of faces; allowing them only a view of shoes pattering
by. Nonetheless, it is life in motion, and a better scene than what lies in
their room. For others, who receive a cordial hello or a smile, their faces light
up like those of children catching candy in a parade.
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| Hoping for something new, something fresh. |
Then, there are
those whose minds will not free them to show any expression. Or worse, they
convey hopelessness. We speak to those we can, and steadily make our way to
Beth’s room. She’s gone, but her roommate is there. Confined to the bed, she
repeatedly moves the one thing she can—her arm, back . . . and forth, back . . . and forth, back . . . and forth. No sound comes from her lips. You only hear a tap as she reaches out to each side of the bed with her arm. Tap…tap…tap.
Eventually, we find Beth in the
cafeteria. A few residents have gathered there for an afternoon worship
service. The residents share with one another their pain—not the pain in their
bodies, but in their hearts. Some wrought with burdens for their loved ones who
do not follow Christ. Others express their loneliness or hurt feelings. They end with a
discussion on love, forgiveness, and prayer.
The resident leading
the service talked of days gone by when church groups used to come and sing the
old gospel songs. He fondly remembers children giving him pictures they had
drawn, and how Sunday School groups would bring treats for everyone. He misses
the old songs and said a lot of today’s contemporary Christian music doesn’t
even mention God or Jesus. He asked if anyone played the piano. No one
volunteered.
My husband stood up and said he’d try to play something. The residents joined in on I’ll Fly Away and Amazing Grace. Tears welled up and I could hardly sing, especially
when I saw the face of one gentleman. He, too, was emotional. His closed his
eyes tight and scrunched up his wrinkled face as if he were in severe pain. I
watched him for a while. His gentle swaying gave me the impression he was intensely soaking in the music, and with all his might he was trying to hold it there. Savoring it down to the depths of his soul, clinging
to it for as long as possible.
I took a deep
breath trying to suffocate the lump that had risen in my throat. I take so much
for granted. Gazing around the room, I presumed their wheelchairs imprisoned
them. Reflecting on that later, I
realize it was their only thread of freedom to pull themselves out of their
tiny rooms and to the temporary sanctuary.
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| A wheelchair provides a thread of freedom |
And temporary it
was, for as soon as the service was over, most of them merged into a single
lane out into the hallway. We stayed back to visit with Beth. Three or four other residents lingered in the
room as well.
I saw a skinny, stubble-faced, man wheel up to the man who had been
soaking in the music. They spoke to one another softly and the skinny man bore
a toothless grin. What they did next made me
break out into a smile. Each of the elderly gentlemen stretched an arm out and gave
the other a fist bump. They laughed and then began talking.
There was another
man who stayed. We couldn’t determine if he wasn’t in his right mind or if he
was just a rascal. He wheeled up behind our son and held a tiny paper cup in
the air. “Can I get another shot of this? Or some other kind of liquor?” We laughed
it off but Beth told him, “Quit cutting up just because I have visitors. You
know all you had was juice. Tell these folks what your name is and then go on.”
The man announced
his first, middle, and last name with a rolling, loud flair as if he was
announcing a boxer into the arena. Beth
said, “He always says it like that. Alright, now, you go on and leave us alone.”
With a mischievous
grin he did not move. He proceeded to ask her a question
about the man in the corner, the one who had enjoyed the music. Unfortunately, he used a racial slur. The man in the
corner overheard it and asked him what he said. Beth got mad. She pursed her
lips, raised her eyebrows, and told him in a firm voice to leave before she
told on him.
He didn’t move. She said, “Don’t make me come over there.” He still didn’t move.
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| A rest home brawl? |
Nervously, I looked at my husband and wondered
if we were going to witness a rest home brawl. Beth, with her enormous gold purse on
her lap, which held all her “valuables, because things tend to go missing in
this place if left unattended,” began to wheel herself behind me, around the
table, then behind the instigator. Her agitation fueled her adrenaline and amazingly,
she pushed his chair towards the door.
He yells, “Get
out of my rim!” He starts to push his
chair back in our direction. It looked like a game of “Duck, Duck, Goose.”
He wheels behind me and circles back to his original position. Beth is livid.
Suddenly, the man asks if we
have any medicine. Beth tells him it’s in his room and to go get it. He slowly moves on.
Before exiting the room though, he stops by the two men in the corner. Slamming
his paper cup down on the table, he roars at them, “Don’t ever come back unless you have free samples!”
As entertaining
as that sounds, I don’t imagine living with it every day is very pleasant.
Dealing with bullies, worrying about someone
taking what little belongings you have left, or wondering when you’ll no longer
have that single thread of freedom. It’s easy to see why so many feel desolate.
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| Give them a sanctuary. |
I am grateful for
those who are at ease serving people in this season of life. To go work day in
and day out in this atmosphere takes someone special.
For the rest of us who
struggle with it, I pray God reminds us of His will to treat the elderly the
way we want others to treat us when we reach that age. And that we remember that He wants no one to
perish, but for all to have eternal life.
Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for anyone, but the opportunities for accepting
Christ are definitely dwindling for those in assisted living centers. Pray for
them. In the midst of their despair, point them to an eternal hope. Give them
something new, something fresh. Give them a sanctuary of hope.
