It was Martin Luther King Day, a day of service at our United Methodist Church. Staff Parish had granted all employees a paid day off to give us the freedom to go forth and serve. There were wonderful mission projects planned, but I decided to forge my own service path and make some much-needed nursing home visits. Both of my "circuit rider" volunteers had sudden family caregiving responsibilities and hadn't been able to make their regular rounds to the many care homes where our members (or their family) resided.

So on this freezing cold, snowy Monday morning I blazed a trail to my first stop. Well, actually I slid right past my first stop on the icy streets, couldn't negotiate a U-turn, and decided it was probably safer to keep going! I finally arrived at a brand new assisted living residence, noting the Pony Express station/museum on the adjoining property. I wondered how those horses and riders negotiated their rounds in these bleak Kansas prairie winters.

The wind swept me into the foyer, and instantly those within moved toward me like metal to a magnet. The weather had been so bad for so long that I was a beacon of light in a visitor-void world. I received joyous greetings, smiles and hugs from perfect strangers. It was a good thirty minutes before I parted a path to my intended, but there she lay, sick with a sore throat and cough, not able to visit. I felt a wave of disappointment as if I had somehow failed in my mission, but as I wove back out through the sea of beseeching eyes, I realized I had served Christ in this place, offering his presence and peace in the gap between here and there.

I slid off to my next destination, wondering how often we do stand in the gap unaware of the blessing we give. I always pause and pray at the threshold of a care home, asking the Holy Spirit to use me to meet the needs of those within. I never cease to be amazed at the apparent power of my prayer, as I "happen" upon those who are dying alone, as I try to answer those who ask in despair "What use could God possibly have for me here, why won't he take me?" and to pray with those who have been aching for a final assurance that if they but ask, they are forgiven.

A husband and wife, parents of a member, lived at the next facility, an older, institutional skilled nursing center. She was downstairs in a sunny room reading a steamy romance novel. Her Twenty-Third Psalm poster was hung on the wall opposite the foot of her bed so she could view it whenever she looked up. I'm not sure how those two reading materials really fit together, but we had a wonderful, laugh-filled visit, prayed together, and her words of "I love you" trailed behind me like floating ribbons as I left the room.

I went upstairs to visit her husband, who was well-incarcerated in the dementia unit. So incarcerated, in fact, that I couldn't get through the outer locked gate at the top of the stairs. I couldn't find anyone to help me, so I furtively glanced around, and then just shimmied over. I wondered what the penalty was for breaking and entering a dementia unit.

The unit was a hum of sounds and movement, like a freestyle ballet where everyone did his or her own dance to his or her own music. Instead of tutus, though, this ballet was costumed with an entire color wheel of sweatpants and tops that bore no relationship to bottoms. Many of the tops looked like they had been splash painted with the flick of a brush, but in this case the paint resembled milk and juice with a little oatmeal for added texture.

I searched for the husband's room, weaving among the wanderers in a dance of my own. His room was blocked by a man stuck in place, like he had returned to yesteryear and was playing freeze tag under the streetlights on a warm summer eve. Gently and carefully I spoke to him, asking his name; and after my voice triggered no explosion of agitation, I gently touched his arm to draw his eyes to mine and repeated my question. I received no answer, but went on to ask if I could help him move down the hall to the dining room where others were gathering, or being gathered, for lunch. I got nothing. He was in a space where time, schedules, meals were irrelevant. I moved away, wondering if his space was freeing.

At the end of the hall was a large, paned window through which the sun was streaming, making a four-foot square white-bright checkered-board spot on the carpet. A woman was lying on the floor in the warm spot, wallowing, spinning, turning to try to soak it up, throwing her arms over her head, then out to the side as if to gather in the ungatherable. One sock had come off in the process and lay discarded to the side. My grandmother's words echoed in my mind in equal rhythm to this dance, "Deedle deedle dumpling, my son John. Went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off and one shoe on. Deedle deedle dumpling, my son John." To me her dance was mesmerizing and beautiful -- free and without thought of propriety or convention. I wondered if her daughter would think so, if loved ones who had been held and rocked by her,fed by her, nurtured and loved by her, would find this beautiful. I doubted it, but hoped they could find some emotion besides horror at the sight of her dance welling out of the depths of a misguided brain.

I moved to the dining room and sat down next to the husband. I introduced myself, and though he did not answer back, he welcomed me with his eyes. All dining at this table had some form of turkey noodle casserole and peas. Some had identifiable noodles and hunks of meat in their ice cream scoop shaped pile and peas in their original circular shape.Some had softer, less identifiable scoops, and others had the whitish filled bowl and greenish filled bowl of liquefied food. I could easily reach two people, so I began feeding both.

The conversation around the table occurred in isolation, but somehow communication DID happen. There were joyous outbursts mingled with yells, mingled with eyes-only language. The lady I fed gently patted my hand, a great gift and the only thanks she could offer. She and I played the one-two counting game over and over; where she started with one and I chimed in with two and off we went. Once we made it all the way to 52 -- my age. Appropriate enough, I thought. Another at the table took in a meager few of the offered liquid spoonfuls, graciously offered by a caring staff that works so hard for so little. When you forget to swallow you begin to fly away. I wondered if she was already soaring.

I said the Lord's Prayer with the husband, knowing he understood despite his lack of verbal response. I could feel it through his hand that I held, see it in the brief flash of a smile and the softening of his eyes. I silently prayed for each around the table, that they would know the peace of God that passes all understanding, that the Holy Spirit would swirl like smoke through their minds and remind them that Jesus loves them. I whispered that God remembers them, even if they do not remember him. As I left I walked through the gate this time, out into the dazzling snow-white day.

As I drove home, Martin Luther King's words framing this day echoed through my mind. Even though he spoke of the racial injustice of his day, I easily drew the parallels to my day of service with the frail elderly. "I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this national will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal.'"

I wondered if those who can't pray any longer are equal in the eyes of the church. I wondered if those who don't remember God and can't get to the church campus to worship are remembered by their church family and considered equal to those who faithfully fill the pews and lend their tithes and offerings. I wondered what would happen if more of the outside world went inside the care home, offering love and care and Christ. I wondered.

Karla Woodward
United Methodist Church of the Resurrection
Leawood, Kansas

For more information, you may contact her by e-mail at karla.woodward@cor.org.

This article appeared in the Fall 2007 issue of Center Sage.

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