The Blue Sweater

While visiting a small skilled nursing community earlier this month, I walked up to a rather anxious looking man to introduce myself. He grasped my extended hand, and before I could say anything, he said with uneasy determination, "My name is Boyd." He was very much struggling to stay afloat and even his name was proving difficult to hold on to.  I was reminded of meeting Vernon in the very beginning of my ministry, close to eight years ago.   I felt that maybe I had just completed one rotation around the sun. 
  

Friends, I will be sorting through some of my writings, so you may see some older posts resurfacing as I attach pictures.  Your comments are always appreciated. Follow the blog if you are so inclined, and if you ever feel you are receiving too many emails, just let me know.  

I thank you for your presence.  It has always given me the sense that I do not travel alone.  The Boyds, Vernons, Sadies, Marys and all the others are all better served because of you.  

   The Blue Sweater 

One of the earliest poems I can remember contemplating as a young adult was William Carlos Williams’ poem, “The Red Wheel Barrow.” I never have felt that I really understood what he was talking about when he wrote “so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water besides the white chickens,” and I do not think Iunderstand now. But the words of the poem came to mind last week as I found myself thinking about a blue sweater.


Last week, after a worship service, I went over to a man sitting alone. He had taken communion a few minutes before, but he had looked so very sad. I introduced myself, and he reached out and took my hand. Because many of the people I serve struggle with dementia, I am very cautious about asking folks to tell me their name.  During my mother’s illness, people were always asking her what her name was. The question would often cause her much anxiety when she could not remember. Yet, despite my sense of trepidation, I decided to ask. Sure enough, he panicked and said he did not know. He grasped my hand tighter, paused a moment, and we took a deep breath together. He then exclaimed, “Vernon! My name is Vernon!” We talked for a bit, and during our conversation I noticed his beautiful blue sweater with large buttons. His sweater had been knitted in a shade of blue that matched his eyes. I could not help but comment, “Vernon, I think someone who loves you gave you that sweater.”

He smiled. He could not quite remember, but he smiled. 

I recognized that sweater because even though I knew my father kept his house a balmy 87 degrees, I was always sending him a sweater, especially after my mother died. Just in case. Just in case he got cold – or lonely. In my mind they were one in the same,
and the distance between Texas and California led me to distrust the weather report. Too often, I simply could not be there just to make sure that all was okay, so I would send a sweater. 

Therefore, while I might underestimate the importance of a red wheel barrow and a white chicken, I think I understand a little bit about the hope that can be knitted into a blue sweater – the hope that love can identify us long after our names, our jobs, our successes, and our failures have faded away. I believe we can trust that compass reading. In the unmapped and too often unclaimed realm of love, there God calmly sits and calls us by our real name: God’s Own.