On Saturday I was grateful for youth and family. The Womens' ministry paid a visit to a local nursing home to deliver gifts in nice, used purses. One of the women brought pocket angels to distribute as well to remind people that God loves them.
I haven't been in a nursing home since my grandpa had to stay in one after his stroke. There was one place he had to stay where I met George. We'd usually meet him in the hallway on our way out. Mom would wait while George and I would have arm-wrestling matches or count to ten. I didn't like nursing homes, but they weren't nearly as uncomfortable to me then as they are now. Maybe that's because there was someone I knew, and someone I knew I could help cheer up. This weekend I found myself with a woman who could not hear, rooming with a lady who spoke Spanish, and could barely sit upright. Almost before I knew it, I found myself shouting at her that God loves her only to see her roll over and pretend to sleep. Talk about being uncomfortable.
Discomfort is one thing, but I always feel a twinge of despair in nursing homes. Here's why: 85% of residents in nursing homes receive visitors. I told Mark that I wouldn't last long if I were among those 85% because I would quickly lose my will to live. If I've learned anything from my grandparents, I've learned that will has an awful lot to do with living. Family usually gives you a will to live. When three or four of my gido's children sat down to talk about plans and costs with the nursing home staff member, her eyes about bugged out. No one had such a representation at these meetings.
Two moms brought their daughters, the youngest of whom was 4-years-old. I look forward to taking Miah with me in a couple of years, to this and other acts of service. With her heart, natural sociability, and charms I'm sure I'll be learning as much from her as she learns from anyone else about service.
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