Becky's illness is noticeably progressing. She used to regale me with a couple of stories from her childhood every time I saw her, but lately she has grown more silent, and often nods off in worship. In the past she has always enthusiastically taken Communion while reminding me that she is a lifelong Presbyterian who as a child would walk to church even when her parents would not attend. Yet, yesterday, she was difficult to rouse during Communion, and I was not sure she was going to respond. However, I was reluctant just to give her a blessing and continue on; the moment just felt too pivotal and I was not ready to let go. I waited a few moments, tapped her arm, and asked again.
She slowly opened her eyes and then responded, "I barely know what that means anymore." I held the communion wafer closer to her face, and a smile began to surface.
'Oh yes, you know I love Communion. I hope I do not forget this.' I promised that we would always help her remember. She surprised me by replying, 'Yes, I know you will.'
The last hymn we sang was "God Will Take Care of You." I am always surprised by how many residents know this hymn, even in this community where the residents really do not sing much. As I was saying good-bye to Fran, she took my hand and nodding, quietly repeated the words,"God will take care of us." I thought, "This is a good day's work."
Yes, the day will will come when Becky will not respond, and Fran's smile will pass. However, yesterday reminded me of just how much I love worshiping with the frail and the ill. Like those I serve, I need reminders as well. That in the midst of all the anguish and harshness in the world, I am still called to simply return to the practice of walking with faithfulness among the faithful. Together, we remind one another that we, too, matter.
Learning to hold on and learning to let go. This is my opus Dei.
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow...
Matthew 6:28
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