A Lenten promise turns into a lifelong calling.
The florist was delivering bouquets to the nursing home. I proudly carried in my offering—my beautiful daughter, Meghan, almost two, dimpled, with a halo of curls, in her peach hand smocked dress. She was to be my gift to some lonely patient.
Oh, yes, I had a plan. I had called several retirement communities in our area asking if I could bring my toddler for a visit, though we didn’t have a specific resident in mind. I was a bit taken aback when only one person I talked with on the phone seemed receptive to the idea. She was the receptionist at the most elegant, expensive long-care facility in town. I had originally targeted homes for the indigent elderly.
“Oh, well,” I reasoned, “if this is the only place that will accept us…” Why this plan? You see, I was pregnant this particular Lent in 1971. It had been my custom to give up some treat during the season, but this close to term I was ravenous for sweets, and I was afraid I couldn’t stick to my resolution. If I couldn’t sacrifice, I thought, why not make some positive contribution?
I had vivid teenage memories of going with my cousin, Shirley, to visit her Aunt Goldie in a nursing home. When we would bring Shirl’s adorable toddler, Jana, along, Aunt Goldie and her friends chirped with excitement. All the eager elderly ladies and men wanted to hold her.
So now that I had my own adorable, outgoing child, I intended to go to the reception desk with Meghan in tow and ask for the room number of patients who had no relatives or friends. If the patient’s door was open and he or she seemed to want company, we would chat until the patient or Meghan seemed to tire. Then we would move to another room. I figured we could probably visit two or three patients every Wednesday afternoon. This was my plan. But God had another plan.
The Best-laid Plans
My first clue that this master scheme might not go according to blueprint should have been those many discouraging phone calls. But I plunged ahead. When we arrived at the one home that had been welcoming over the phone, I proceeded to the exquisitely appointed lobby, reminded the receptionist that I had phoned in advance and politely inquired if there were any guests who might appreciate company.
She courteously replied that such information was confidential and, thus, not to be released. Why hadn’t I anticipated that myself? I stood at the desk, helpless, stopped dead in my tracks.
“Well, then,” I stammered, “could we please go to the lounge or the social room or whatever you call it where your residents gather?” Perhaps sensing my embarrassment, she assured me, “Certainly; it’s right down that hall.”
The room was lovely with plush carpets and antique furniture. To my surprise, very few patients were assembled there, and the few who were dozed. Maybe I had chosen the wrong time of day. A few ladies and gentlemen did smile at Meghan. (Naturally, I thought. Who can resist her?) And she returned their attention with her full-dimpled dazzler. I felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman in her 40s in a crisp, white uniform whispered, “I’m Doris, Mrs. Wetherill’s private-duty nurse. Would you like to come to her room?” (Names have been changed.)
“Oh, yes,” I answered gratefully. We followed Doris to an immaculate room. A little sparrow sat in an antique rocker in the corner across from the sterile hospital bed.
“This is Mrs. Wetherill,” the nurse announced. Mrs. Wetherill’s bluish-white hair was perfectly coiffured. Her nails were manicured. Her sweater was embroidered with flowers and pearls. She managed a shaky “Hello,” but then, as during all of our subsequent visits, she said very little. But she did keep her eyes fixed on my enchanting daughter.
She quickly reached out her arms when I asked if she’d like to hold the baby. Meghan, as if on cue, climbed into her lap and snuggled there for about 15 minutes until Doris and I noticed our patient tiring. Then we lifted Meghan down, and I spread a few toys on the carpet so she could play while Mrs. Wetherill slipped into one of her many catnaps.
An Unplanned Blessing
This became our pattern every week. I learned from Doris that Mrs. Wetherill’s son was a millionaire living in a distant state. He called her once a week, visited twice a year and paid all the bills for this luxurious facility. And although the facility had a very low patient-to-caregiver ratio, he ensured that his mother would never be alone by hiring additional help for her—three shifts of private-duty nurses for each 24-hour period.
It seemed sad that Mrs. Wetherill’s son was so far away, but I could see that she was lovingly cared for and seemed content. In contrast, it became obvious immediately that Doris, her friendly nurse, was the one most urgently in need of emotional support. So from our first encounter I shifted my focus to her.
Over the weeks, Doris poured out her tragic life story: two divorces, one from an abusive husband, her son’s death in a car accident, diabetes, bouts with cancer and financial worries about retirement.
I found myself profoundly grateful that I had been put in this place, at this time, to listen to Doris. I had asked God to help me find an elderly patient who needed company. Instead, a middle-aged nurse who needed company found me. I have always firmly believed that God has a marvelous sense of humor. After all, wasn’t Sarah’s first response laughter when she learned she was with child?
I could imagine my Father chuckling, “Yes, Cande, it took you a while to catch on, but now you finally understand. Doris is your assignment this Lent.” Those Lenten Wednesdays sped by quickly. Meghan and Mrs. Wetherill had their cuddle parties, and Doris unburdened herself to me. Oh, by the way, she too got plenty of hugs and kisses from Meghan. All four of us looked forward to our time together.
The Journey Continues
That was many years ago. Meghan now has her own precious baby, Keeghan Rose. At 60, I’ve come full circle and now visit nursing homes year-round as part of a music ministry for the dying called Songs for the Journey. I’m happy to report that today long-term care facilities and Hospice have well-organized programs to welcome and utilize visitors. In fact, they often have a staff member specifically assigned to coordinate volunteers.
I’d love to blow my own trumpet and proudly proclaim that I continued to visit Doris and Mrs. Wetherill for many years after that Lent, but the truth is that, although I paid them a few more calls, after Katie, my second baby, arrived I gradually got caught up in the many responsibilities of rearing what turned out to be four children.
Still, I’ll always remember the epiphany of that first hour with Mrs. Wetherill and Doris when it hit me right between the eyes that God had his plans for me, all in his time. I had arrived announcing, “Here I am, Lord.” And God had subtly but unmistakably directed me, “Just slow down. I’ll show you where to go.”
Unfinished Business
Over the years, my patient Father has re-taught me this lesson many times in my vocations as parent, teacher, volunteer and, most dramatically, in Songs for the Journey. Recently, three members of our team were called to a nursing home, as always at the request of the family, to ease the patient’s transition.
But this time we arrived 20 minutes too late. We asked if we could be of any help to the remaining relatives, but were told they had just left. We stood there, stumped, feeling useless. We certainly had not served God or our dying brother.
Then Rob, our faithful guitarist, began to share the frustrations of his day, starting with the traffic snarl that had made him late and building to his recent job loss and, most devastating, the brain lesion that was causing him intractable pain. We looked at each other.
“Well,” I shrugged, “it seems that God is telling us that we do have some praying to do before we leave here this evening.”
All three of us grinned. We found a quiet corner of the empty dining room and joined hands. Obviously, God isn’t finished with me yet.
