Thoughts from Below

I was having a conversation recently about what makes a “good” pastor.  Is it good preaching?  Good administration?  Is it about pastoral care?  Is it knowledge of the Bible?  Is it about engaging young adults?  You know how these conversations go.  Too often, at least one party is looking for an angle to criticize a church leader.  But I realized something anew… there are a variety of gifts, of strengths important to “successful” pastoral leadership, but some “great” pastors have some gifts and not others.  Nevertheless, there is one quality that I think is essential:  a pastor must love her or his congregation.  No, it’s not a sappy or silly thing to say.  I’m talking not about a sweet emotion but about a commitment and a depth.  I’m talking about a passion that is as strong on rough days as on easy days, in Ordinary Time as much as on Easter morning.  I’m talking about the language of 1 Corinthians 13 (yes, that passage is about relationships within the body of Christ, not about romantic love.)   I believe a pastor must truly love her or his congregation in order to lead effectively.

This may seem like a tangent, but please bear with me:

Mom broke her ankle and has had two surgeries in the past month.  She spent most of that month either in the hospital or in a rehab center, not in the small, personal assisted living facility that she now calls home.  At the time, I recognized that things weren’t quite the same, but honestly I had no complaints about her care.  I expected when she lived in a much larger facility that there would be many more needs that the staff had to manage, and thus mom’s needs might not be addressed as urgently.  I expected that when someone is new in a large facility, their needs might not seem as urgent as the needs of a long-time resident with whom the staff has a stronger, deeper relationship.  But the staff in the rehab center were friendly and they seemed to care.  So honestly, it seemed like a pretty good situation even though it wasn’t perfect.

Mom didn’t seem herself, though.  She was quiet much of the time, disinterested in things around her.  But the day mom was discharged and I drove her back to the small facility she now calls home, I remembered.  These people know mom.  And though they aren’t family or longtime friends, there is something about deep familiarly, about knowing someone, that is very close to love.  They know mom so well, it’s like they love her.

I pushed the wheelchair (a temporary situation while her ankle heals) into the room and all the staff jumped up and came to great her.  Everyone was full of hugs and kind words.  Mom, who had been fairly quiet and withdrawn for weeks, sat up straighter, she smiled.  The next day when I arrived, mom looked different:  she looked fresh.  A staff person remarked, “Her hair clearly hadn’t been washed in weeks.  Someone just used that bottled stuff you don’t have to rinse out, but your mom loves to have her hair done.  So it took several of us, but we made sure she got her hair all clean and styled.”  It was that simple:  mom looked like mom because this group of people knew how she liked her hair done.  And honoring mom’s preferences led to mom’s contentment in ways that mom cannot even put words to.  She has only been back for four days, but in that short time, it’s been a huge transformation.  She is cheerful and chatty again, she wants to be a part of group activities.  To know someone and to care about their needs is to love them.

Pastor friends, love your congregation.  No, you don’t have to do their hair.  But talk to them, listen to them.  Discern what is most important to them.  Contemplate what is missing in their lives.  Name their priorities and see how they respond and then together look at those priorities and how they correlate with the Gospel.  Get to know them better and better, because only by knowing them you can better love them.  It’s not a job, it’s a calling.  Thank you to the CNA’s and other staff who helped me remember this truth during the past few days.

Where I live there was an icy mix of snow overnight and throughout the day yesterday.  Churches all across our area cancelled Sunday worship for safety concerns.  In the middle of the day, the safest time I supposed for travel, I went to visit mom at the rehab center.  Since she broke her ankle a few weeks ago, she has been unable to stay in the home-like small assisted living community near my house.  Instead, she’s almost half an hour away in a much larger nursing home/rehab center.  The staff and environment there are nice, but it doesn’t compare to the place she now calls home.  So although things are going fairly well, mom is not as comfortable, not as relaxed, not as able to navigate her surroundings and her own schedule/needs nearly as well.  So I’ve been trying to be with her more, although the distance is farther and our calendar has been full throughout the holiday season.

When I arrived yesterday, there were fewer visitors than usual due to icy roads and sidewalks.  I learned that the early morning church service on site had been cancelled because the volunteers who lead it had been unable to come.  Mom had already had PT and OT and it was only 1:00 p.m.  There was only one other thing on the schedule for the afternoon:  another church service led by visitors/volunteers.  Of course they wouldn’t be coming out in the snow for this, I assumed.  When you cancel your “own” church service, would you go out for a church service in a facility where only a small fraction of the residents had any idea what was actually going on?  That’s not practical.

So, how would we fill the afternoon?  I pushed mom’s wheelchair around and around the hallways.  I tried playing dominoes with her.  We tried watching TV.  We tried reading the newspaper.  Nothing interested her or held her attention more than a couple of minutes.  So we went to the front lobby where I could get a cup of coffee.  Three people came in and sat down.  They were nicely dressed, so I assumed it was a family member’s birthday or a similar special occasion.  Then I heard them talking.  They were waiting in the lobby for others:  for the one who would preach and for the others who would sing and for others too who were coming just to worship together with them.  Mom overheard them:  “Is there going to be a church service?” she asked them.  Yes, yes there was going to be. “Oh good, I’ll look forward to that,” mom lifted her arms like a cheerleader might do.

At this point, not only was I emotionally fatigued, but I needed to get home and check on my children.  I had work- and home-related chores to complete.  I was ready to leave but was feeling like I should stay.  The promise of the church service… the community, the hope, the Word, the presence… it changed everything.

Mom didn’t know the people leading the service.  She didn’t know their denomination or their style of worship.  It didn’t matter.  It was the Body of Christ.  These members of the Body who came to lead were not trying to “grow their business” or even grow their church.  Those leading the service were also not coming to be “on stage,” to grow in popularity or to boost the likes on their ministry social media.  So what were they coming to do?  They were coming to meet with people:  many of whom can’t speak in sentences, some of whom have a faint odor of urine, most moving slowly with aid from a walker, wheelchair, or cane; They were coming to meet with people:  all beautiful, valuable children of God.  These members of the Body of Christ drove on snowy roads and walked on icy sidewalks in order to do one thing:  to be present together in worship of God.  They won’t collect an offering.  They won’t gain new members.  They aren’t from my denomination so they don’t even get to enter their “numbers” in that online system we use.  But their presence was sacramental today to me… to my mother… and to many of the residents and staff at the nursing home/rehab center.  This is what it means to be the Body of Christ.  Those worship leaders love and value the people they came to lead in worship.

I read an article yesterday by a person who has given up on the Church.  Her words were honest and accurate about her experience and her pain.  I read it in the morning, and I thought about it all day long.  I can’t in good conscience tell the author that she must return to the Church in order to be connected to God.  And yet, I can’t in good conscience believe we can be fully Christian in isolation.  We are part of the Body of Christ.  And when we come together to celebrate and to worship, to serve and to study, we not only remember (a thought process) Jesus, but we re-member (a creative reality) Jesus.  If the church were merely a social club, a networking group, etc., then it’s true:  we wouldn’t need it.  But… if what I have been taught and what I have experienced is true, then we do need the Church.  And we, the Church, need to wake up and wake up fast.  We must address and change our injustices.  We must live as though we are the Body of Christ and not just a place to “plug in” for service or fellowship opportunities.  We need to be more like the group that visits the nursing home weekly and less like the culturally defined “successful” Christians out there.  We need to be more like Jesus.

I wish the author of the article (a stranger to me, someone from another city and state most likely) could have been there yesterday.  I think she could be at home in the Church as we experienced it.  I’m praying for her, that she find the Church somewhere, somehow.  And I’m praying for the Church, that we find anew what it means to truly be the Church, to be the Body of Christ.

I don’t often drive down that road.  It’s a dead end, and everyone in our small town knows it’s a dead end.  Just a few small houses line the streets.  But this week my daughter had a pet sitting job on this quiet dead end street.  So twice a day for several days, I’ve driven her there.

I noticed a very elaborate, beautiful, illuminated Nativity scene in the front yard of the last house on the dead end street.  Ignorantly, I said aloud to my daughter, “Who would go to so much trouble to set that up if you lived at the end of a dead end street?!  Who is going to see it?  That’s a lot of work.”

I heard the callous, consumer-mentality in my tone, and I paused.

• How many things do I do for mom knowing she won’t remember in five minutes?  And yet, I continue to do those things.
• How many times have I done something for a student or a church member knowing there wouldn’t be any “credit” given, any “points” won.  And yet, I feel called to say or do those things and draw deep meaning from those experiences.
• How many times has someone done a kind thing for me without any public fanfare or “credit” (I can name seven or eight this week alone!)

Measuring the value of something by the number of people in attendance or the number of “likes” or “clicks” it gets is how we are conditioned to think.  But that’s not how God works.  Consider the original Christmas morning:  Mary and Joseph alone in a stable, the smell and sound of animals around them, the uncertainty of being away from home during such a tender time.   God could have orchestrated the birth of the Christ child with much more fanfare, but that’s not how it happened.  The entire life and death and resurrection of Jesus could have been a lot more glamorous, but that would have only distracted us from the truth of the Gospel.

The person or people who live in the house at the end of the dead end street set out a beautiful, elaborate Nativity.  Even though it’s a small street, there are more people coming and going from the homes there than would have witnessed the original Christmas morning.  But even if not a lot of people see it, maybe there’s a child on that street who has never heard the Christmas story.  She or he will see it and ask someone what it means.  Maybe there’s a widow or widower on the street who is feeling sad or lonely during this festive season, and they will be comforted by it.  Maybe someone will be lost and take a wrong turn and end up at the dead end all frustrated… and they will see the Nativity and be reminded of One whose love and patience and grace and hope is greater than ours.  Maybe even a tired, middle-aged preacher will see it and will hear herself say something ignorant, and then pause… and think… and listen… and find Jesus anew.

I’m glad the person or people in the house at the dead end set out their Nativity.  It may be the most inspirational thing I’ve experienced this Christmas season.  Perhaps we can all reflect what we “put out” when we are living at a dead end.  Maybe dead ends are perfect places to share inspiration.

We made a scene at church today.  It was such a festive, light-hearted day.  Both kids were in the Christmas pageant.  A friend played trumpet, making our wonderful music even more inspirational.  We sang beloved Advent/Christmas carols.  There was a dessert social prior to the service.  Days like today aren’t when I expect or predict “a scene.”

Two-thirds of the way through the service we have “The Passing of the Peace.”  In our congregation this means about half of those in attendance are appropriately liturgical and turn to those sitting nearby saying, “The peace of Christ be with you” then wait for their neighbor to respond, “And also with you.”  The other half of the congregation scurries around and offers fist-bumps asking, “How’s it going?”  Despite the diversity of how each person “passes the peace,” it’s a part of the service I enjoy.

Today, mom and I stood up to pass the peace to our neighbors.  I hadn’t gone far from her, but I was turned facing the opposite direction, greeting folks I hadn’t seen in a while.  Then I turned back toward mom to notice she was bawling.  She wasn’t merely tearful, she was falling apart.  “Mom, what happened?  What’s wrong?!”  Gasping for air through her sobs, she muttered, “I just wish your dad were here to see this, to see you and all this.”  By “all this” I think she meant the grandchildren, the Christmas pageant, the church, the community we are a part of.

Realizing that she wasn’t crying due to a hallucination or false idea but rather because she genuinely, powerfully was grieving my father’s absence and wishing he were with us, tears began to fill my eyes too.  Mom leaned over into the open embrace of a kind gentleman who put his arms around her and accepted her just as she was.  I tried to gather myself, but realized that the more mom cried, the more I was going to cry.  So as the congregation returned to their seats, she and I made our way out the back doors of the sanctuary.

My dad died young, he was only 44 years old and his death rocked our family and our community.  But that was 26 and a half years ago.  Do I miss him?  Yes!  Do I think about him and how he shaped who I am?  Yes!  But I confess at this point (more than half my life), I rarely shed a tear when I remember Dad.

It breaks my heart that of all the things that could fill mom’s thoughts, dad’s death is the thing she dwells upon.  Perhaps trauma marks the brain in a way that beautiful surprises don’t, and thus the traumatic memories remain even when the happy recollections begin to fade.  Part of me wants to dwell on the downside of things right here as I reflect on today’s meltdown.  I want to curse the way our brains work.  I want to change how mom thinks and what she focuses upon.  I want to erase the pain… hers and mine… and never re-live it again.

But I don’t have dementia yet.  I’m not stuck where my brain takes me.  I can look at more than one side of a situation.  I can step back and reflect.  I can seek peace and meaning beyond the obvious.  And so while I still can, I must.

Here goes:  Mom’s breakdown today could also be seen as a gift.  She recognized that we were in the midst of something (a powerful worship experience) surrounded by a strong and supportive community (where it’s safe to be yourself and to let your full emotions flow.)  She wasn’t just missing dad because she was missing dad… she was missing dad because she was present with people and in a place/experience that moved her.  It was the kind of thing she wanted to have shared with him.  Do we dwell on his absence or on the richness of a moment so special that it called to mind the person she loved most?  I will dwell on my gratitude that mom experienced a very special Sunday worship service.  My heart is filled with thanksgiving for the people, for the Spirit, for the Divine and human community we enjoy.

Mom and I slipped out of the service and didn’t go back into the sanctuary.  We found a box of tissues, found the leftover desserts and punch from the morning reception, found members volunteering in several capacities who stopped and spoke with us.  A few treats and “hellos” and before you know it, the tears were all gone.  We were back to enjoying the special Advent season and the special people we call our church.

I know her tears didn’t feel like “a gift” to mom this morning.  Fortunately, no doubt, she has long forgotten the tears since she has forgotten what day it is and where we were and what happened while we were there.  But I can stand back, I can feel the pain, but I can also be thankful.  I’m thankful that I was born to a father so amazing that his absence still stirs tears, stories, smiles, and laughter.  I’m thankful that although mom has forgotten many, many things, she hasn’t forgotten the love of her life.  I’m thankful that I have found a community so loving and accepting that mom and I can spill our tears in the midst of a celebration and still be embraced and accepted.  I am thankful…

I hope it’s a long time before we make a scene at church again.  But, at least in this moment, I’m grateful… Grateful for a safe place to be ourselves, for such a place is one where we can truly find hope for this challenging journey we are on.

“You Are What You Eat.” 

I don’t know where I first heard this saying, but it’s deeply ingrained in my thinking.  I grew up on a farm where we grew our own corn, green beans, butter beans, squash, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, peaches, apples, blueberries, blackberries, plums, figs, pecans and more.  We made our own sauces, fruit preserves, and even got honey from the beehives and beef from the cattle.  “You are what you eat” began as a call to eat healthful, homegrown foods.

After Grandma Grimes passed away, I realized there were foods she prepared that I would never taste again.  Her homemade Brunswick stew and cornbread (aka Johnycakes) were unlike any I’ve enjoyed since her passing.  What she served was unique to her kitchen.  I was her grandchild, I am what I ate, and it’s unique to our family.

There were certain foods mom has always loved.  When Chick-fil-a was a new enterprise, mostly only in malls in the deep south, I feel sure that we drove to Savannah sometimes (almost an hour away) not only to shop but mainly so that mom could get a Chick-fil-a sandwich.  Then she discovered their carrot slaw and brownie ala mode (both now discontinued.)  These were not favorite foods for a season, but this was what mom always wanted.  A few years ago, I remember hearing from my brother that during visits to the mall in Atlanta, she was choosing a fast food hamburger over Chick-fil-a.  It was hard to believe, but it was consistent and it continues.

Mom also has a real sweet tooth and introduces herself to people as a “choco-holic.”  It’s true, she loves chocolate.  And through the first ten years or so of mom’s journey with dementia, she was always up for a Dairy Queen drive-thru.  Recently that has changed.  Almost every time I take her out, I ask… “How about we swing through the Arby’s drive-thru for a milkshake?” or “How about we run by the house and grab a brownie?”  Invariably she responds, “Only if you want one, I’m really not hungry.”  Who is this and what did she do with my mother? 

Mom has always been so consistent regarding her food choices that it’s hard to adapt to her new preferences.  “You are what you eat.”  But now she doesn’t want what she was always wanted.  Her signature foods are untouched.  It’s like she’s a different person.  I find myself getting frustrated and wanting to tell her what she should want.  I go through a drive thru and buy her a hot fudge Sundae and she doesn’t finish it.

This is one of the greatest challenges when a loved one has dementia:  Certain traits remain, even if they only occasionally show themselves, but other traits (like mom’s food preferences) seem to be gone for good.  And yet our loved one is still here, still present… just so… very… different.

For now, I’m putting away the wise old sayings.  Human wisdom fails where dementia is concerned.  I’m going to shorten the proverb “You are what you eat” to simply “you are.”  It’s a hard adjustment, but mom is still here.  She still laughs, she still tells stories, she even still enjoys food (even if I can’t predict what foods she will enjoy!)  I can’t make sense of it and I’m certainly not going to argue with her about what she should like or dislike.  I’m just thankful that the “You are…” part of “You are what you eat” is still true for us.  It’s a challenge some days.  It’s painful some days.  But there’s still a lot of beauty and joy.

“’You are…’ is enough, Mom.  I’m glad you’re still with us.

It’s my role to remind mom of things.  I remind her that she doesn’t have room keys when she’s rummaging through her purse when I bring her back to the Alpha House.  I remind her that she doesn’t have cats any longer when she picks up cans of food at the grocery store.  I remind her that she has grandchildren who range from middle school through college, not preschoolers any longer.  But occasionally, she reminds me of things I’ve forgotten.

I got to preach Sunday because it was family weekend at R-MC.  The staff at Duncan Memorial UMC is gracious to invite the college chaplain into the pulpit at special occasions like this.  Usually I sit with mom on Sundays, but this week I found a friend to sit with her while I robed and entered the chancel area.  At the end of the service, I found mom and my friend, and the friend confided that everything had gone smoothly.  “But,” she added, “You may want to know that she was very tearful at the end of your sermon.  She said she wished your dad had lived long enough to hear you preach.”

Well, open the floodgates.  Dad died over twenty-six years ago, and his unexpected death remains the biggest formative and painful experience of my life.  Growing up he was my anchor and my hero.  He decorated our birthday cakes, he baited our hooks, he even drove me to school on the back of his motorcycle at times.  He sang without reservation, and he insisted I could jack up a car and change a tire before he let me drive a car on my own.  I miss him.  But…

Dad’s been gone over twenty six years.  So… I don’t think about him daily.  I don’t even think about him weekly.  Yes, he’s still a big part of who I am and how I got to be me… but I don’t think about him like mom does.  Time is different for mom.  The last ten years are more or less missing for her.  And the fifteen or so before that are foggy.  In her mind, he only recently left us.  Now, of course, that causes her a certain amount of pain that I’m spared from on a daily basis.  But Sunday… her memory didn’t bring me pain, it brought me a gift.

I’m middle-aged and mid-career, you might say.  But through mom’s lens, for a moment, I was simply the daughter of what would be a proud dad.  And it just so happens that tomorrow is his birthday.  He would be 71 on October 10, 2018 if he hadn’t passed away at age 44.

Thank you, Mom.  In the busy-ness of my work and my routine, thank you for reminding me that I was loved by a very special man.  He’d be proud of you, too, Mom.  You’re doing really well even with all of the challenges you face.  Happy birthday, Dad.  I hope we’re all making you proud too.

It has been a busy fall semester, and it isn’t even half over.  My calendar is full of things like Homecoming and Family Weekend at the college where I serve.  Last weekend I helped lead a wedding and a funeral, one right after the other.  There are two more weddings in the next few weeks.  There are so many big things on my calendar.  There are so many significant events to celebrate and appreciate.

In addition to these notable events, there are many ordinary appointments that also fill my calendar… meetings, standing appointments, regular obligations.  They are often not worth mentioning when I recount my day’s activities to a friend.  Among my daily tasks:  I try to visit mom at the assisted living home where she lives.  It takes time, but she lives very near to my home.  And it’s a pleasant environment when I stop by.  I’ve never walked in and found her sad or upset.  She’s a people person and she is still very much enjoying the people around her (other residents and staff.)  I know someday, as her cognitive abilities decline, it’s likely that she’s going to be less engaged, more confused, less at peace in the moment.  But for now, she’s usually sitting in the living room with other residents looking pleasant and engaged or enjoying the fresh air of the courtyard.  When I walk through the door, she jumps to her feet, bounces up and down, and makes the motions of a cheerleader.  My walking in the door is a big event to mom each day.  (I confess it makes me smile every time, even though it’s as predictable as can be.)

Her enthusiastic greeting is a daily perspective shifter for me.  I don’t think that mom can recall the details of most of the major events of her life:  high school graduation, marriage, building a home, even the birth of her children.  But she celebrates jubilantly at the simple opening of a door and my stepping into the room.  It’s nothing.  It’s a simple daily occurrence, but to a person with a dementia, an unexpected visit is something big, something to celebrate.

Focusing on living in the present, not longing for the “special events” or “big events” of the past (or the future), is not a new insight.  You’ll hear this message preached from the pulpit, published in the self-help section, and sung by the superstars.  But no matter how common the wisdom is, I can’t help but notice how much planning and resources and emphasis goes into the “big events” and how easily I think of things like my daily visits to mom as “not so special.”  We know better, but we get drawn into the “big events” and fail to focus on the beauty of the ordinary.

I invite you this week to cherish and appreciate a personal interaction that may not seem “special” at all.  Pause and give thanks.  Notice the details.  Appreciate the moment.  Wonder about the other person’s story.  Perhaps it’s the smile of the clerk at the supermarket tomorrow afternoon.  Maybe it’s the hug of a child.  It could be as simple as a telephone call from a relative or the generosity of a stranger holding a door open for you.  Slow down… pause and notice.  I promise that your day will be richer, your connection to creation deeper.

Mom may have dementia.  She may not know what state we live in.  She may have forgotten her favorite foods.  She has trouble buttoning a shirt or jacket.  But she’s still my mom… and she’s still teaching me things.

I lied.  Maybe you could call it “faking it” rather than outright lying.  But I was fully self-aware that I was faking it, so I think that makes it a lie.  I’m not good with names, I never have been.  And now that I no longer work at a small or mid-sized church but rather on a campus of 1,500 students plus faculty and staff, it’s even harder to match names and faces and to remember who is whom.  Today I was at a gathering of Virginia Conference Clergywomen from all across the state.  The crowd was huge, it’s size was inspiring.  And therefore, of course, I bumped into people I should have known but I didn’t.

I think about my inability to remember names often.  Usually I’m honest, “Remind me your name,” I’ll ask.  “Where did we first meet?” I’ll inquire.  But there are times I just fake it, like today.  I smile and nod, “It’s so good to see you.”

Then I hate myself for doing it.  Why do feel this way?  Well, for one, it’s dishonest.  But I think it also bothers me because when mom’s dementia first began, she “faked it” like a master.  Mom was able to live independently in South Georgia for so long and then in a house alone near me or my brother because she was so good at faking that she was aware of what was going on.  It was a helpful skill for her, but it was a frustrating reality to confront over, and over, and over as we tried to discern just what she did know and what she could remember.

So now I’m the one faking it.  Mom has reached a point where she mostly just goes with the flow.  No more trying to pretend, no more saving face.  She just says what she thinks.  That can be frustrating in its own way, but it’s also refreshing to just be in the moment and to just be honest.  So if mom isn’t faking it and I realize that sometimes I am… that alarms me.

How will I know if or when dementia is creeping into my brain, affecting my reality?   The good news is that I visit UCSF annually and through their testing, they have assured me that they will let me know if/when they see changes in my mental abilities, my memory, etc.  But it’s funny, even knowing that, I still worry.  I still look for signs that I could be slipping.  I wonder if others perceive my weakness and question if dementia has come.

I’ll have the opportunity to stand in the pulpit again in a couple of weeks.  Guess what the passage is that I’ll be preaching on?  Matthew 6:25-34.  It starts and ends this way:

6:25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?

6:26 Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

6:27 And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?

…

6:33 But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

6:34 So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”

It’s funny, scripture says nothing about dementia.  And yet, it says so much.

So back to today. There were a couple of familiar faces that I couldn’t match with a name.  But… the gathering was amazing.  The conversation was rich.  The community was genuine.  The Spirit was moving.  As I sit reflecting now (at 11 p.m.), I’m not sure what I had planned to write when I sat down and began this piece.

Today was wonderful in so many ways.  It wasn’t, isn’t about me.  Who cares if I didn’t remember someone’s name?  My place is to seek the kingdom of God… to seek justice, love kindness and to walk humbly with God.  As long as I’m doing that, I probably don’t need to obsess about the morality of faking knowing a name.  There are bigger things to worry about.

Sigh… and yet, aaaaaahh!  It bothers me.  I’m not at peace with pretending to know what I don’t know.

Thankfully, everyone will have a nametag again tomorrow.  Thanks be unto God.

I’m an optimist.  I’m a positive-thinker.  I look on the bright side.  Maybe it’s in my blood, in my genes.  Maybe it’s because I’m a straight, white, middle-class, Christian, able-bodied U.S. citizen whose experiences have often been positive.  But last week I was talking with a friend.  A good friend.  But a friend who isn’t all of the adjectives in my list above.  She is most of them, but not all of them.

We were talking and I made a statement about how we were going to make change, we were going to defeat racism.  “No we aren’t,” she said flatly.  “There’s no way.  But we aren’t going to let it get us down.”

I paused.  I believe we can make major changes.  Her experience tells her otherwise.  I don’t know who is right.  We care about and respect each other, even if one of us is right and the other is wrong on this matter.  But it made me think.  It made me wonder.  “Am I too pie-in-the-sky, look-on-the-bright-side, everything-will-work-out” in my perspective?  When I think of racism, classism, poverty, immigration, gun violence, gender and sexual identity equality… so many topics that I care about, I am full of passion and hope.

But what about dementia?  Is it the same?  Do I think I can change the stigma attached?  Do I think I can shift society’s perspective?  It’s funny, I intend to speak up and speak out, but no, I don’t think I can make grand sweeping changes.

So what is the difference?  The other issues I care about… they aren’t really my issues.  They are things I truly care about, but they are issues of my neighbor.  I think I can do great things for my neighbor.  But dementia.  That’s my problem, my issue.  I expect to get dementia.  That’s one thing I don’t think I can change.

That’s odd, isn’t it?  I don’t feel as powerful, as capable, as confident when it’s the issue that holds me back, that causes me suffering.

Does that mean I’m a shallow, uninformed person on the topics I was speaking about and that I only “get” the full weight of my one issue that I bear a burden for?  Maybe.  But maybe not… what if it’s more like this:  We are called to be people of hope and possibility.  We are called to speak up and speak out.  We are called to believe that with God, nothing is impossible.  We believe that the Kingdom of God is a time and place of justice, equality, compassion and grace.  But, when we are the one who suffers in a particular way… the homeless woman discussing poverty, the gay teenager discussing inclusion, the Syrian refugee discussing immigration, the carrier of the FTDP-17 gene discussing dementia… maybe then, we aren’t able to be the one who casts the vision and carries the banner.  Maybe that’s when we need others by our side, others hoping when our hope runs out, others believing when our faith falters.

My friend’s suffering is real and she doesn’t believe racism will ever go away.  I am going to believe for her.  And work for her and speak up for her and stand beside her.  But when it comes to teaching others about the value of persons with dementia, I’m going to need my friend, and I’m going to need you.  Speak up for me, please, when I can’t speak.  Tell my story please, when I can’t tell it.  Brush my hair and make me a milkshake and put on some Indigo Girls tunes for me, when I can’t do those things for myself.

I’m not ready to give up.  I won’t quit believing in a better and brighter future for all.  Stand with me, and please don’t give up either.  Believe, and if one of us can’t keep believing, maybe the other one can believe for the both of us.  And, as my friend said, “Don’t let it get us down.”

Mom wears her watch every day.  It’s a part of getting dressed, essential to a complete outfit.  And she looks at it frequently to remind herself where she is in the day.  Recently I realized that her watch battery was going bad.  She was an hour or more “off” each day.  We would adjust the time, and it would be incorrect again the next evening.  I’m sure I could buy a new battery at Wal Mart or Target, but honestly the simple task of removing the watch cover seemed daunting during this busy season.  So I decided that we would go to the local jewelry store to buy a new watch battery.  I knew they would remove the back of her watch, replace the battery for us, and have it all working within minutes with a friendly smile to share, too.

Sigh.  But they close by 6:00 p.m. each day.  I work into the evening three days each week.  It took about 10 days for me to finally find a time to take mom by the jewelry store.  Yesterday, we went.  We walked in and mom, as she would have years ago, marveled at the beautiful diamonds and pearls.  But what surprised me was when the woman behind the counter exclaimed, “Cheryl!  You came to see me instead of me coming to see you!”

Now, of course, mom had no idea who the woman was.  But in her usual social manner, Mom played along and said how nice it was to see her too.  For a while, the woman did not look at me nor speak to me.  She engaged mom in warm, friendly conversation.  She was clearly “leading” each topic and making it easy for mom to respond.  I’ve lived here 17 years.  I didn’t know this person, but mom was enjoying talking with her as if they were old friends.

Eventually, when they ran out of things to talk about, the woman turned to me and said, “My mother lives at the Alpha House also.  I go by each day around 5:00 p.m. and I always look forward to visiting with Cheryl.”  Wow.  I either go by the assisted living home on my lunch break or later in the evening.  So we don’t cross paths.

They didn’t have her watch battery in stock.  We paid for a special order, and as we completed the paperwork, the woman offered, “I can just take it with me when it comes in and put it in your mom’s watch while we visit next week.”

It’s funny, I almost started to cry.  I thought that after dementia came to stay, a person would not have the ability to form new friendships.  It’s not true.  This woman is mom’s friend.  Friendships when one person has dementia may rely more on the person without dementia to initiate the conversation, sure, that’s true.  But the connection, the smiles and laughter, the willingness to go out of one’s way for the other… it was real.

Relationships don’t end when dementia comes.  New friendships form.  But those of us who don’t have the disease need to be the ones to take initiative, to build the bridges, to open the door.  It’s interesting to think about, that someday I may enjoy a friendship with someone whom I won’t remember when they walk out the door.  And yet, I’m already thankful for them, thankful that they will care about me.  I can pray for them now, while I’m still able.  And I can be that person for someone else.

Friendships keep all of us ticking.  How neat to discover mom’s new friendship during the search for a watch battery!