Earlier this week I attended a webinar hosted by Michael Verde of Memory Bridge. Michael's work focuses on the importance of being in a relationship with those who have dementia, not just tend to their physical needs. Dementia eventually took the life of his grandfather some years ago. At one point, his grandfather could no longer remember his wife's name. However, that did not mean he did know not who she was. The proof? When someone called their home and he would answer the phone, he would ask the caller to please wait while he handed the phone to the one he knew as "my beloved wife." His grandfather was blessed to know he was in relationship with someone he loved.
This piece, entitled "Blue Sweater" was written some time in 2008, early in my ministry. I still remember the hesitancy of asking him his name. I also remember the feel of his holding my hand, and my breathing a deep breath. When his breath joined mine, his anxiety calmed and then he remembered. Sometimes we all need someone to breathe with and to hold on to.
One of the earliest poems I can remember contemplating as a young adult was William Carlos Williams’ poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow.” I never have felt that I really understood what he was talking about when he wrote “so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater besides the white chickens,” and I do not think I understand 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 sad. I introduced myself, and he reached out and took my hand. Because many of the people I serve struggle with dementia, I am extremely 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 the question. 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 wheelbarrow 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.
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