Thoughts from Below

On Christmas Eve 2023, my children and I stopped by the Assisted Living Community to pick up Mom on our way to church. I am so glad we did. We couldn’t have known that two days later Mom would endure a seizure or stroke and enter into a week and a half of physical decline and eventually death. On Christmas Eve, there was no hint of what was to come. 

We sat together as a family. We sang Christmas hymns together and recited the Lord’s Prayer together. It was a “normal” wonderful Christmas Eve church service. Well, it was normal except for one thing that happened… and that one thing has become a treasure that I hope that I never forget.  

In our congregation, we receive the sacrament of Holy Communion by going forward to the chancel area in the front of the church. We hold our hands out and receive a piece of bread from the pastor or server who says, “The Body of Christ, broken for you.” Then we turn to the person beside him/her and dip our bread into the cup as s/he says, “The cup of Christ, poured out for you.”  

That’s what everyone else was doing. It’s what Mom has done countless times worshiping with us at Duncan Memorial UMC. And it’s what I thought we would do at this Christmas Eve service. I helped mom stand and held her by the arm to help her walk forward down the center aisle. As we approached Pastor Michael, I guided Mom to hold out her hand and receive the bread. I received my piece too and then we stepped slightly to the left to the kind, friendly woman holding the cup of grape juice. Before she could speak and offer the expected words “The cup of Christ, poured out for you,” mom noticed her warm friendly face and immediately spoke aloud. 

Imagine this spoken in a sweet, slow, deep Southern drawl with great enthusiasm: “Hey! We gonna have to get together and do somethin’ fun!” The dear, kind woman holding the cup was speechless. I sensed that she didn’t know whether to laugh aloud with joy at the unexpected sweetness of mom’s words OR to be deeply embarrassed that a formal sacred moment was interrupted by words so unexpected and unfitting. But she smiled gracefully, offered the cup, and we moved forward. 

Had life gone on as it normally does, I likely would have forgotten this moment. But two days later mom was in the hospital and rarely responding to us. Within a week and a half, she had passed on to eternal life. Therefore, the unusual encounter from Sunday was seared into my memory.  

Today was the first Sunday that I have been back at my church for weekly worship. This was the first time I had gone forward for Holy Communion since two weeks ago when I held mom steady while she received the bread and made her exuberant comment. It felt so odd to walk down the aisle alone, no one leaning on me. I received the bread, I dipped it in the cup… but something was missing. I thought about the liturgical words, how Jesus offered his body as a sacrifice, as a witness of love over law. Jesus was broken, His blood was poured out as a powerful witness of His love and faithfulness. In the seconds that I stood there, receiving the bread and the cup, my mind was actively thinking, pondering theology. Then as I took my steps to walk back to my pew, I heard mom’s words echo in my heart: “We gonna have to get together and do somethin’ fun!” I couldn’t help but smile.  

Then, I thought, “those words are going to echo in my heart each time I receive Communion in the days and years ahead.” Part of me wanted to chuckle and laugh at how inappropriate and ridiculous they were. But another part of me was more respectful. These were Mom’s words. I am her child. What wisdom might she be modeling for me? (Yes, people with dementia might still be sharing wisdom and insight with us!) 

I tend to be a work-a-holic. There is always more that can be done. One’s “to-do list” is never completed. Responsibilities are great and sometimes even overwhelming. Oh sure, I can label myself “responsible,” “committed,” or things like that. But as I age, I also realize, I can label myself as “unhealthy,” “unable to say no,” and things like that. I reflect how little time I have made for friends, for family, for sipping hot tea while simply sitting in the backyard listening to the birds and watching the trees sway in the wind. Sure, I’ve accomplished a lot, but I haven’t modelled healthy living. I am “middle aged” by demographic standards, and I am dangerously close to the age that many of my relatives have been affected by dementia. Maybe Mom’s words the final time she received Holy Communion were not the silly, out-of-context comments that we assumed they were that day. Maybe Mom’s words were a spiritual call for me to hear, to remember that I am both called to offer my full self (body and blood) for God like Jesus did for me AND to remember that I only have this gift of life for a limited season and I need to be sure I’m not just working all of the time. I need to offer my body and blood as a witness of God’s love and grace AND I need to value the gifts and relationships that I have been given. I need to better connect with my friends (old and new) and family and enjoy this gift of life and love and laughter while I can. Jesus died that we might have life. Service/sacrifice and intentional living are BOTH important.  

I have a feeling that Mom’s words will reverberate every time I receive Holy Communion for the rest of my life. Maybe I’m wrong, but I sense that God spoke through her for me to hear on Christmas Eve ’23. I share her words and my thoughts here in case they speak to you too. Maybe you need to “get together and do somethin’ fun” with someone you love and value and haven’t been in close relationship with?  

Thanks, Mom, for sharing your joyful wisdom. 

Last weekend I led a workshop titled “Dementia Doesn’t Diminish a Person.” As part of the session, I shared a video from Teepa Snow’s website (www.teepasnow.com). (BTW, thanks @Heather A. for introducing me to Teepa’s resources.) In the video, Teepa emphasizes the importance of Productive Activity for those living with dementia. The video is instructive and inspirational as we watch several people with dementia work together with staff to make muffins.  

Everything about Teepa Snow’s “Positive Approach to Care” speaks to me, but the value of feeling productive, of contributing to the good of the world, THAT really speaks to me. If I had to name my greatest fears or worries about my future experience with dementia, knowing that at some point I might only be the recipient of care and not one who gives to others grieves me. I know, I know… our value is in who we are, not what we do. But… I know myself and how important it is for me to be a do-er. So what might I be able to do even when my cognitive skills are impaired? 

Why do I keep thinking about the muffins? The muffins… the muffins? (Keep reading) 

The “Dementia Doesn’t Diminish a Person” workshop was on Saturday, then Monday night we hosted a representative from an Atlanta seminary to share with our pre-ministerial students about things to consider when choosing a seminary. I want to expose our students to many different grad school options. As the representative was sharing, I was remembering my own seminary experience and my thoughts immediately went to Supervised Ministry. (Trust me, this has something to do with muffins.) 

The way that Supervised Ministry worked, at least back in my day, the school asked what your interests, strengths, and passions for ministry were. Then, they intentionally assigned you to a ministry setting that was very different and even uncomfortable so that we could gain experience (with supervision and feedback) to enable us to grow and expand our ministry skills. I was assigned to a “day shelter” for homeless men. Having grown up on a dirt road in South Georgia, a homeless shelter for men in a large city was definitely out of my “familiar” and “comfort” zone. But I had no choice. So… on my first day, feeling awkward and unsure of how to step into that space, I baked a bunch of homemade muffins to take with me and to share with each of the men who came to the shelter that day. The muffins were so appreciated, that I began baking regularly when I was scheduled to work there. I could tell that a “home cooked” gift was something rare for most of them in their current situation.  

One of the regular visitors whom I got close to was Darnell. He taught me a lot about my bias and assumptions. He was more highly educated than I was (as I worked on my masters degree.) He had had a very successful career. But then he had a trauma in his life and turned to alcohol to an extent that he lost his job and most of his significant relationships too.  Rather than enjoying retirement, Darnell was homeless and in poverty. He was smart and well-educated, he was kind and brave, and he was homeless.  

One day, a man I hadn’t seen before came in the door of the shelter. He was agitated and angry, you could tell. There weren’t many of us in the room, but his eyes immediately fell on me, the only woman present. He started walking toward me, speaking loudly, waving his hands. I started backing up, but soon I was standing against a wall. It all happened so quickly that it’s hard to recall the details. But right as the man reached me, Darnell came from out of the blue and stood between me and the angry stranger. The man’s arm was reaching over Darnell’s shoulder pointing at me and gesturing wildly. Then with a calm but firm voice, Darnell spoke saying, “Leave her alone. Leave her alone. She makes us muffins.”  

I remember my heart racing as I was thinking, “What a ridiculous thing to say.” Muffins. Who cares about muffins, really? The man stepped back and looked at Darnell, and looked at me, and he calmed down.  

Muffins. I don’t think I would have made the connection between the intentional productive activity of muffin making in Teepa Snow’s video and my seminary experience almost thirty years ago if I hadn’t been sitting with a group discussing grad school programs and options last night. But whoa… now that I have made the connection, I keep thinking about how muffins are not simply a snack. Muffins can be a means of grace, a sign of friendship and acceptance, a gift that reminds one of home.  

Please, someday in the future, when you come to visit me, let’s bake muffins together… or let’s make homemade cards that you can share along with muffins you bake for the homeless people in your town… or if at some point, I’m not able to bake or to write/draw, then bring a cookbook and let me choose which muffin recipe you’ll later make for the homeless community and help me feel just a tiny part of what you doing as you make a difference in our community. Remind me of Darnell and the courage and love he showed (he could have received a violent punch or even worse when he stepped between me and the angry man.) Remind me that we all matter and we all can make a difference. Thank you! 

We have biblical accounts of Jesus’ interactions with many who were considered outcasts or “other” in His day. Sometimes I wish we had a record of Jesus encountering someone with dementia. We read about his interaction with the Samaritan woman at the well or the Ethiopian Eunuch on the side of the road. But we have no text describing Jesus meeting a person with dementia.  

Since we have no scriptural text, I want to be clear that this is my imagination speaking, not holy writings that have been passed down to us. Nor am I claiming this as a revelation of the Holy Spirit. I’m simply wondering what Jesus would have said if he had encountered a woman with dementia as he walked through the village streets.  I feel sure he would not have smiled, looked the other way, and kept walking. But so many people today do that when encountering someone with dementia. I don’t think that’s what Jesus would have done. Jesus saw value in everyone. He met them where they were, and showed them that he cared.  

So what would he have said to them if he stopped and took time to speak with them? Would he have said “This isn’t really you”? I cannot imagine that although I hear people make this type of statement all the time. “Dad isn’t really himself.” “Since Grandma isn’t really there anymore, we don’t visit very often.” That’s not what I would expect of Jesus.  Jesus was present with God in the Beginning. Jesus knew the beauty and value of every human life. When a person became lame, Jesus didn’t see them as “lesser than.” When Jesus encountered the blind man or the deaf one, He did not look the other way and say that they no longer mattered. No matter what physical change a person had endured, Jesus loved and cared for every person He encountered.  

We don’t have a scriptural account of Jesus encountering anyone with dementia. But most of us who claim identity with Christ will encounter someone with dementia in our lives and routines. Will we see them as lovable, valuable, with something to “give” and “add” to our world or only as “different,” “problems to take care of,” or “not worthy of our time”?  

Last week I stopped by the dementia care home where my mom lives. There was a group of 6 or 7 people at a table. I realized quickly that it was one resident and a group of church members from the congregation where she belongs. Notice that I did not say “where she used to belong.” No… she is still a part of that church. And the church came to her, they sat with her and shared with her. Will she remember it a week later? No, of course not. But that does not mean that she does not belong with them and they are not connected to her? Of course not, they are one body and she is a valued part of it.

So many churches seem only focused on how to be successful, how to be more popular, how to be more prosperous. When I look at the life and witness of Christ, I don’t see a focus on prosperity, popularity or success. I see love, compassion, valuing all people and all of Creation.  

I encourage you the next time you encounter or interact with someone who has dementia, not to look the other way and excuse yourself because you are uncomfortable with what they might (or might not) say or do. Instead, reach out. Shake a hand or offer an embrace. Smile, share kind words. Tell them that they look beautiful, that you are so happy to see them. Tell them that they are loved and valued. We don’t know what Jesus would have said or done when encountering someone with dementia, but use your imagination. Let the Spirit guide you. My guess is… it won’t only make that person’s day better but it will also bring a blessing to you.    

I recently preached a baccalaureate sermon and tomorrow I will preach at a Richmond area church. For both services, I am exploring the Genesis passage (12:1-9) where God calls 75-year-old Abram and his wife Sarai to leave their home and travel “to the land I will show you.” It’s important to remember the context in which this is written, how there was no google maps, no interstate highway, no rest area with food and restrooms along the way. And the call that God gave to Abram was vague, asking him to uproot his family, his animals, his possessions and to simply trust that God would lead him to “the land I will show you.”  

My sermon focuses on what bold faith Abram must have in order to follow God’s invitation. Surely each and every day he must have wondered, “Am I on the right path? Is this really where God wants me to go? Am I crazy? How do I know for sure?” And yet, Abram made the journey, took each step, ventured forth in faith and trust. And because of his faith, today Jewish, Muslim, and Chrisitan traditions are a part of the fabric of our lives. Wow. Abram is an inspiration to so many of us! 

We honor Abram, and yet, most everyone I know today wants to have a map, a plan of where they are going and how they will get there. We live in a culture where retirement plans, health care plans, living wills, and countless other legal documents are considered essential as we map our later years. It’s simply being responsible to have these plans. For the most part, I have already made many of these plans myself. 

So am I a hypocrite? For a brief moment, I think, “All our worldly planning doesn’t matter.” And then I remember how grateful I was that mom had done a lot of this type of planning. And her planning helps us navigate her care in these recent years. So yeah, maybe planning is responsible… but, how does aging with dementia fit or intersect with Abram’s call story? Am I trying to plan and orchestrate everything or do I trust God to lead me? 

Then it occurs to me, “What am I most worried about?” It’s not the legal questions or the practical details of my future years. It’s the deeper questions of meaning and purpose, of value and meaning. I don’t want to be a burden or to be seen as a nobody.  Perhaps it is a gift if I can take care of the legal and practical planning our society requires, and it’s a witness of faith if I can genuinely trust God to lead my heart and soul as I someday step onto the path of dementia and all that it entails.  

There are a lot of parallels… a person on the path of dementia has no control over how fast it develops, what memories or abilities fade first, how a personality may shift or change. Abram had no control over the path before him… the weather, the food sources available to him, the anger of others if he passed through their land, disease, frustration from his family members, etc.   

It’s terrifying, it’s depressing to ponder my future with dementia.  It’s not a journey I would ever choose to take. As I’ve mentioned before, people say things about those with dementia such as “Since she’s no longer there…” But we are more than our cognitive abilities. We are a heart, a soul, a person, a child of God made in the image of God. 

God asked Abram to trust that God would leave him to the final destination intended for him. No instructions, no details, no map was given… and Abram said “yes” to God’s invitation. Perhaps what I (and so many others) am being called to do is to peacefully and gracefully accept the journey ahead of me, to know that I cannot control it. And perhaps I’m asked to trust that even though it’s not the journey I would choose, I am not alone. God is with me and promises to lead me. And whatever lies ahead, if my attitude and my outlook is trust and faith, then perhaps the journey won’t be as awful as we all imagine it might be.  

Abram is an inspiration. I hope that I can trust God to lead me each and every day, even as my circumstances and my abilities change in the future. Perhaps in the years ahead, you might read these verses to me (or to another friend or loved one) and remind me that we don’t need to know or understand every step on our journey. But we do need to know and trust that God is with us, leading us, and will deliver us home in the end.  

Sometimes I wonder, I worry… in years ahead, will I be lying in a bed, unable to get up on my own? Unable to turn on a television using a remote control? Unable to use a cell phone? Unsure of where I am or why I’m there?  What will it be like for me? Will I be scared and anxious? Will I be relaxed and content? Will I miss the abilities and awareness that I have lost?

I’m lying in my own bed as I ponder this on a quiet Saturday morning. Typically, if I have a quiet, slow start to a Saturday, I love to stay in bed with a book or even just my phone. But it occurred to me, there will come a time that I won’t be able to follow the plot or the content of a book. And (laughing) I already have trouble navigating my cell phone at times, so as technology offers even more options and opportunities, no doubt I will use my device less and less.  

So why not spend a few moments this morning in a quiet meditative state, considering what life might be like in years ahead? But I cannot imagine it. My anxiety immediately grows.  Echoes of a recent article that I read haunt me. The language people often use includes phrases like “since he isn’t really there anymore” and “she doesn’t know anything” to describe those with dementia. But… that’s not how I see it (nor how I want to be seen someday.) That’s not how I see mom.  

On Easter Sunday, mom was able to go to church with me. She doesn’t go every week, but I try to prioritize getting her there about once a month. Easter definitely seemed like a great Sunday to include her. Now remember, mom has had a diagnosis and needed support/care for about 17 years at this point. She frequently asks where she is, how things work, and other basic questions that illustrate that she is not certain of the date, time, location, etc. But when a church friend took her hands and greeted mom, including a loving Easter reminder that they will be reunited with their spouses and other loved ones again in heaven someday, mom’s reply was priceless: “I just hope they all get to bring a cat with them.” I’m still smiling even though this happened a week ago! 

I’m 99.9% sure that mom wasn’t trying to be funny. She meant what she said. Mom has always loved cats. What I love about this exchange was how genuine mom was in reply to our friend. She wasn’t embarrassed. She wasn’t ashamed or worried what someone might think. She wasn’t trying to say the right thing. She just replied with an honest, genuine remark.  

Yes, mom has physical and mental challenges due to dementia. Yes, mom is greatly affected by dementia. But mom is still there. Mom is still Mom. And even when she can’t form words to reply to a friend’s comment, even when she can’t recognize her own children or grandchildren, even when she can’t go down the hall without a wheelchair… the unique wonderful woman we call Cheryl will always be with us… physically and spiritually… until she passes on to life eternal.  

Remembering mom’s Easter cat comment was incredibly helpful to me as I lay in bed this morning, beginning to toss and turn, to sweat and worry. Of course, I can’t know or imagine what it is going to be like for me 10 or 20 years from now. I don’t know what I will be able to do, what skills I will retain, what needs will arise. It’s easy to focus on those likely losses/changes and to wonder and worry. But mom’s Easter cat comment reminded me… I’m still going to be me. Even if I can’t remember what town I live in. Even if I don’t know what church I attend. Even if I forget my beloved children’s names. I will still be me. I’ve clearly inherited mom’s love for cats, so who knows… maybe I’ll be making theological cat comments in the years ahead just like mom has modelled for me. And if I do, I hope it makes you smile.  

About once a month, I take mom to church with me. She can’t tell you the name of the congregation or the names of the friendly people in the pews who greet her so warmly. It’s like being a first-time visitor each time she comes, as she asks me questions about what to expect. But once the service begins, everything falls into place. She sings along with the hymns, recites the Lord’s Prayer, receives Holy Communion, etc. I’m always glad to worship beside her.  

My mindset, I confess, is often focused on what she receives when she goes to church. Did the music touch her heart, did receiving the Sacrament seem meaningful to her, did she recognize prayers and litanies?  

How often do I focus on what she brings to the congregation, what gifts she shares? Yeah… the very things I talk about and write about. Still, I admit, so often I’m caught up in the needs of the moment (can she read the words on the screen? Does she need the restroom, is the pew comfortable enough, etc.) that I can forget that her presence adds something to the Body of Christ. Today, she reminded me and my friend that she has something to share. 

It happened during the Passing of the Peace. In our congregation, this occurs about 2/3 through the service when everyone stands, mingles, and greets those nearby. Mom always enjoys this part of the service, and I enjoy seeing her in conversation with the community members I love. Today, several friends had already shaken mom’s hand and exchanged warm words, when “Friend” approached us. “Friend” was smiling and giving off warm, friendly vibes. “Friend” is a sensitive person who reaches for mom’s hand and looks her in the eye as she greets her. “Friend” and mom exchanged smiles and warm greetings then as “Friend” stepped back, mom said softly “Don’t worry. It’s gonna get better.”  

“Friend” and I locked eyes. Mine filled with tears and I think hers did too. Everything about our interaction had been joyful. Why these words from mom?  

“Friend” is grieving the recent loss of loved ones. Yes, plural, loved ones. And she shares in common with mom the early death of a beloved spouse. But mom wouldn’t know any of this. Given her current dementia realities, even if I had pointed out “Friend” ten minutes earlier and told mom these things, it would be highly unlikely that mom would be able to recall them. And yet… mom’s words were like a whisper from the Divine, like a message delivered by the Spirit to encourage “Friend” or to encourage me…  

We will never know why those words came from mom’s lips during the Passing of the Peace today. But “why” doesn’t matter. The fact is that mom passed peace to us. She was the one offering the gift and we received it. People with dementia are not just objects and are not just recipients. Our neighbors with dementia are not “gone” or “absent.” Yes, they are changed by the effects of the disease, but they are still human beings, children of God. They still have gifts to share… a tune they hum, words they speak, a simple smile or the warmth of their hand touching yours.  

Thanks, mom. You made our day much better than it had been. And thank you, “Friend” for responding so warmly to mom’s comment, helping us to the car after the service, and sharing your friendship in so many ways.   

Maybe others need to hear it too. Friends, “Don’t worry. It’s gonna get better.”  

The following text was written for the annual Lenten Devotional booklet created by the Chaplain’s Office at Cedarfield in Richmond, VA.

When I saw that this year’s Lenten Devotional theme was “healing,” I struggled with what to write about.  Should I explore the theme of healing in relation to disease and illness?  My family has a significant genetic disease.  My grandmother suffered from it.  Then my uncle died young from it, and my mother continues to struggle with it.  I’ve had genetic testing and know that I, too, will have this disease.   Healing would be most welcome in our family.  But I also know that countless people around the globe suffer from physical illnesses, from poverty, from war, from abuse… and every wish and prayer for healing is not granted.   

So… what should I write about?  What do I think of when I hear the word “healing”?  I thought about it for more than a week, and still I had no idea what to write about.  So as I sat down at my computer striving to meet the deadline to submit something, I decided to do a web search for the word HEALING to see what popped up.  Merriam-Webster was one of the first websites.  And the leading line was “149 Synonyms for HEALING.”   

What if I had asked you how many synonyms you could think of for the word HEALING?  I thought of “treatment,” “miracle,” “wholeness,” and 3 or 4 more words.  But there are 149 synonyms for HEALING in the thesaurus.  Wow!  149 synonyms for HEALING.  Maybe my understanding of HEALING is too small, too limited!   Maybe my family’s disease is a reality we have to live with in this world, but there are so many other ways to recognize and embrace healing and hope.  Maybe God gifts to me a special perspective or wisdom or sensitivity because of the family illness.  Maybe God brings to life things in me that couldn’t otherwise blossom and grow.  Maybe healing is more than the absence of a disease but rather the abundant life that fills me and allows me hope, joy, and love despite the details of a medical condition.   

As I move through this Lenten season, I now have a whole new way of looking at HEALING.  Synonyms like “renewing,” “revival,” “fortifying,” “restoring” have peaked my curiosity and awakened me to look at ways that God might be healing me even as I carry this gene.  May we all discover God’s HEALING in our lives, in the many, many (more than 149, no doubt!) ways that God shares it with us.  

There’s a phrase I learned at some point in seminary: “Ministry of Presence.” Folks might define it differently, but basically, my understanding is that simply being physically present with someone can be a genuine spiritual gift. Chaplains often use this phrase when they sit with a family who is experiencing a traumatic or sudden, unexpected death of a loved one. There are no words that can make it better, but being beside them as they process and grieve their tragic loss can be a significant gift and strength. Others use the phrase too. A youth minister who chooses to sit next to the shy, awkward teen rather than the cool kid is practicing a ministry of presence. The class member who sits next to the visitors in a small group gathering rather than beside their friends of 30 years is practicing ministry of presence.  

I sometimes think of my visits to mom’s assisted living facility as a ministry of presence. It isn’t what I say, what I do, what token or gift that I bring that likely makes the most difference. Instead, simply my being there can change her day, can touch her emotions, can warm her heart. I confess I am not able to visit as often as I wish I could, but I almost always enjoy my time with her.  

Today I sat beside her in the communal living room with several of other residents all sitting comfortably in a circle. One woman was so comfortable, she was drifting in and out of sleep. Another resident had two family members beside her, feeding her spoonfuls of soft-serve ice cream they had brought with them. The woman closest to mom was on a small sofa with a baby doll in her lap and a stuffed animal puppy beside her. With genuine care, she would bounce the baby doll on her lap, then hug it tightly to her chest. She would hold it at arms length and gaze into its face, then she might kiss its forehead. Occasionally, she paused to stroke the puppy beside her. Her expressions of love were so abundant, I realize I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.  

Mom and I kept chatting as I sat there but at some point, I locked eyes with the woman beside her. I said something like “You are so kind and loving” to her. There was a moment of silence, and then she replied, “I am here.” Her gaze returned to the baby doll and her loving actions continued. That was all that she said. “I am here.”  

I’ve always thought of “ministry of presence” as something a skilled leader offers to someone in need. Instead, today… this woman with advanced dementia taught me a lesson. I was enthralled with her actions, her kindnesss, her sweet loving spirit. But she is more than just her actions. She is more than memory. She is more than anything she can say or do. The fact that she exists is a gift to the world. Her presence, even in her days of dementia, is a gift. Some might assume she only had a “ministry of presence” in years before dementia when she achieved or fulfilled responsibilities or excelled in other ways. Others might realize that as long as she can love that baby doll and stuffed animal, she can inspire others. But she led me deeper. Even if she were bedridden and speechless and generally unresponsive… she would still be a gift. She is there… the same “her” who has always been. Her abilities may change, but her very existence is a gift to the world as long as she draws breath.  

“I am here.” What if we start to notice the stranger in the aisle in the grocery store and say to ourself, “She is here”? What if we notice the car that zooms past us on the highway and pause to pray and give thanks for that person and pray for their safety as they rush to their destination? What if we take movie stars and politicians and professional athletes off of pedestals and simply give thanks that they exist, that they are human beings created in the image of God receiving the gift of life. “I am here,” they all say to us… celebrities and strangers, the rich and the poor, the popular and the outcast.  

“Ministry of Presence” is an important call for those who serve others… but today mom’s neighbor taught me that it is also a gift embodied by every single human being. I am here. You are here. Forgive me when I fail to notice, I ask of you. Because you matter. Everyone is of value. It may sound simple, but if we can’t affirm that and live like we believe it, then why argue about more complicated questions of faith and belief?

I am here. You are here. Thanks be to God.

Four and a half years ago, I decided to start a blog. I wanted to write and record my thoughts & feelings as I move through the years from a “you are going to have dementia” state to a “you have dementia” state. It’s going to happen, we know that. I cannot stop it or change it, but I don’t have to be a passive victim. I can write and record what I’m thinking and feeling.  I can give voice to pain and fear but I can also share joys and insights. I chose the name “Thoughts from Below” for the blog. It was a way of confessing that no matter how great or how “normal” things seem for me, the knowledge that dementia is coming, is creeping slowly into my reality, is always there. The worry, the fear, the dread may be ever so slightly removed from my consciousness, but it hovers just below the surface of all that I say and do.  

I was reminded of this last week when I travelled home to Statesboro, Georgia for a quick trip to visit with friends. The purpose of my trip was to spend time with a friend in Statesboro and another friend down the road on St. Simon’s Island. There were no special plans, no tickets to events, just a chance to catch up and spend time together. But I found myself feeling especially sentimental throughout the entire trip. I don’t know why. I have some ideas, though: 

• This is the only time in a VERY long time that I have traveled home alone. Typically, I would have my kids with me and focus much of my time and energy on showing them special places, telling them old stories, helping connect my children to my story and setting. I love visits like this, but I was reflecting that when I bring my children along, there are many ways I’m focused on their experience rather than allowing myself to focus on my own feelings. Or, the time I brought mom with me, I focused mostly on her needs, what might be meaningful to her to see or experience. This trip… there was no one else to consider, to share with, to distract me. It was just me and my memories, my thoughts, my feelings. So… I listened to myself and I thought about things that I had time and space to consider. And I remembered and felt many things deeply. Wow. How often am I focused on other people or other tasks or other responsibilities and not fully in touch with my deepest thoughts and feelings? That’s an important question for me to ponder. Perhaps it’s something we all should ponder, how distracted are we and how often are we truly aware of our thoughts and feelings? 
• For years, conversation with mom has focused on one thing for the most part: Cairo, Georgia. Mom names her close childhood friends, tells me where they live and how to get to their houses from her house. She recalls a list of names of relatives, townspeople, church folks. I appreciate hearing what she shares (though it’s often predictable and repetitive), but I’m not all that familiar with the people or places we talk about. Still… I sense how important her early years are to her, how aware she is that the people and places and events and traditions of Cairo, Georgia are an essential part of who she is. So… being in Statesboro caused me to reflect: What stories will I repeat and re-tell over and over again? What facts are most memorable to me? Which people were central to my life when I was young? Throughout my visit, rather than just seeing places and people, I constantly asked myself, “Is THIS what I am going to remember? Is THIS whom I will talk about? Is THIS what is most important to me?” I honestly don’t know how my brain will work and if “importance” or “value” is what causes things to be remembered 20 years from now or if it’s just neurons and brain connections that are somewhat random. I don’t know… but I wondered about it constantly. 
• And… just the opposite. As I pondered what I WOULD recall in the future, I wondered and worried about what I would forget. I saw places and people who are dear to me and realized that someday I may honestly not know who they are or what my connection to a place or event or experience was. In my mind, my reality, it will be gone. It won’t matter to me. It won’t comfort or inspire me or warm my heart. I will listen with the blank polite stare that has grown so familiar for me to see in mom and in others too. This awareness, this fear, this worry caused me to look at everything and cherish it in a way that I haven’t done in the past. I’ve always loved going home, but I’ve never wondered and worried if what I’m treasuring is going to be lost to me in the near future.  
• Most every visit to Statesboro, I drive past the dental office dad shared with Dr. Thompson, then past the office dad built in the 1980s. Both places are filled with memories. I drive by the house where we lived when I was age 3 until I was about 7. Then, I go out into the country and drive past the home my parents built around 1979-80. Both homes and neighborhoods are filled with memories. In the past, I have always just driven past… slowly so that I can look and see and remember and “feel” present. But this time, I did something unexpected, I stopped and introduced myself. First, I stopped at our neighbor’s (the Hunnicutt’s) home. They were the family who had lived in the area for years and years. We were the newcomers in the late 1970s and they welcomed us. Mr. Hunnicutt died when I still lived at home and Mrs. Hunnicutt died about 15 years ago, I think. At that time their daughter was living in the house. Would she still be there? How would I know? I don’t have any contact information for her. Why don’t I just stop and knock? I was so nervous, so afraid that a total stranger would answer the door and think I was creepy or crazy. It turns out that the one who opened the door wasn’t a total stranger, but at first I didn’t recognize her because it had been so very long since we had seen one another. “Um, hello,” I stuttered. “My name is Kendra Grimes…” and she threw her arms around me and pulled me indoors, which was the warm, wonderful beginning of hours of conversation and catching up. I had been terrified and nervous to knock on the door, but within minutes, I felt so at home… so anchored in family and memories and community. Mostly she told me her memories of my parents and I told her my memories of her parents. When it was time to leave, she encouraged me to stop next door. “Just stop and knock, the family there knew your family,” she reminded me. And they are just the third owner of the home/property. They plan to downsize and sell it soon, you should stop while you still can. I assured her that I would, and then my shyness and anxiety took over. There was a line of trees that hid the house, indicating their desire for privacy. There was a sign at the driveway entrance reading, “Beware of dogs.” I drove slowly hoping to catch a glimpse of the house, though I did not intend to stop. But as I crept along, a car came toward me and had to wait on me to pass so that it could turn into the driveway. It was the owner. Whoa. What? If I turned around and pulled in, I wouldn’t be knocking on the door, I would be meeting him in the driveway and introducing myself. I would just meet him and ask if I could take a photo of the front of the house. Yeah, why not? So I pulled in. And as soon as I introduced myself, he welcomed me fully and genuinely. I went inside to meet the rest of his family and they offered for me to look around, even to go upstairs to my childhood bedroom, to see the new rooms they have added. So much was different yet so much was the same. So many memories are rooted within those walls. I was overwhelmed and mostly speechless. Then he took me outside, out the back door. The backyard (including the screened porch, the deck, the pole barn, and all the fruit trees) is probably my favorite part of the property. He pointed to and mentioned the blueberry bushes. Four blueberry bushes were still there. We had about twelve when we sold the house 30 years ago. But four were still there. He commented how they were all different varieties and bloomed at slightly different times. “Yeah, that was intentional,” I remembered. I told him how the very last memory I had with my dad was together spreading netting over those bushes to keep the birds away as the berries were ripening. He said they still produce today. I mentioned that we had grapes, peaches, pears, apples, figs, plums, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, raspberries, and more. He said many of them were still thriving. And then he commented what a significant impact all of dad’s plants were still having today on the ecosystem of this area. Those you reading this may think it’s small and insignificant, but his statement was a way of affirming to me that my dad’s actions, my dad’s existence more than 30 years ago still matters today… it matters to this man’s family every time they enjoy the fresh blueberries, it matters to bees and butterflies and deer and cardinals. It matters to his grandchildren enjoying the house and yard. And it reminds me that the impact of dad’s life echoes on in many other ways too… through his friendships, his dental care, the music and woodworking he shared, his basketball playing, his volunteer work and mission trips… and so many things I can’t even imagine. When the weight of grief (dad’s death in 1992 at age 44) or the fear of dementia (my reality) tries to pull me into a place where everything is limited and broken, one simple sentence from a man I met less than an hour before reframed everything. Every life, every action, every word has an impact… not only in the moment but it ripples and echoes long beyond what we might think. Whether I remember or forget, whether I have three more “good” years or thirty more… my life matters, every life matters, every life is connected to other lives around it and makes a difference.  

This is by far the longest blog post I’ve written yet. And honestly, it doesn’t cover all of my thoughts and feelings and insights from the brief holiday trip home, but the words of the man living in the home that my parents built were the greatest gift from this entire, wonderful visit home. So I will wrap things up here and leave us all with the image of 40+ year old blueberry bushes growing and blooming and offering fruit that benefits humans and wild animals and insects, then stops producing and growing all winter… then it blooms again the next spring. May all of our lives have impact and beauty and fruit that we can’t imagine, season after season, making a difference to those we know and to creatures we have never even noticed with ripple effects far beyond our imagination and understanding. Every life matters. Your life matters. My life matters. That will never change.