He is in a "mood." Dementia is such a cruel thief. I remove his socks, and begin to rub lavender oil into his thin, flaky skin. "Just relax, Pa," I tell him. He closes his eyes. "That's just so nice, Sissy," he tells me. I massage the arch of his foot.
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I am 7 years old. I'm frustrated. I got a new bike for Christmas, but it's springtime now and I still can't ride. I fall over and over. I'm ready to give up. I can't do this. Then my grandpa, visiting from Ohio, appears outside. He's wearing black pants, a light button-down, and his classic suspenders. Always, the suspenders. His feet are steady as he holds the back of my bike, coaxing me to ride. I lean hard and brace for another fall, but his strong arms hold me tight. There will be no more falling this time, as he's not going anywhere until I can ride. Soon I am cruising, faster than I've ever moved on my own; warm sun on my face, cool breeze blowing my hair behind me. I'm exuberant. I turn, and see him still there, still ready to catch me, smiling as proudly as I feel.
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He can't remember my name. I see the recognition in his features, the love in his eyes, the warmth of his familiar embrace. I remind him. "I'm Jada. I'm your granddaughter." "I know who you are, sweetie. I just couldn't quite get ahold of your name." That's ok, Pa. Names aren't important.
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I am 9, and I want to paint his nails. He gets out Grandma's nail kit and hands me the tools I'll need to give him his manicure. He endures the poking and asymmetrical cutting. He hands me the clear polish, and assures me his fingernails have never looked better in his whole life. I feel like the most special little girl in the whole world. I'm smart, and talented!
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He's having trouble making his coffee. I gently take his spoon from him, kiss him on the forehead, and dole the sugar and creamer. As I turn the mug handle toward him, our eyes meet. We smile the same smile. We're a great team.
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I'm 15. My dad recently left. I feel rejected, sad, alone. He is visiting again. "Let's go practice driving," he says. I am nervous getting behind the wheel, but our neighborhood is quiet. The streets are empty. "We're not going to go far," he assures me. He tells me everything I need to know. He never slams the "imaginary" brake. He is calm, and I think I must be doing a good job. I learn to "let the engine slow me down; don't stomp your brake pedal." (I don't know it now, but I'll remember that advice every time I drive thereafter. I'll teach it to my own children one day.) We get back home, and when I cut the engine, he says, "You're going to be alright, Sissy." I don't know if he means the driving or life, but when I look at his confident eyes, I believe him.
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He is wet. He just woke up, and incontinence has left him embarrassed. I help him into dry clothes, careful to avoid eye contact to preserve some of his dignity. He can hardly move. He grunts and swears. "I've got you," I say. I hold him with strong arms. I won't let him fall.
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I'm 16, and giving my mom "a hard time" (to say the least!). He's there for yet another visit. He knocks on my bedroom door, interrupting my favorite Nirvana song. "May I come in?" he asks. I agree, but only because I have to. He looks serious, and takes a seat next to me on the bed. He reaches out and places his hand lovingly on my knee. "Your room is a pigsty," he lectures. I'm annoyed. I have eyes. I know this. He tells me about pride, and hard work. He talks about how hard my mom works to give me the nice things I throw all over my room. He talks about empathy, and self-worth. He challenges me to show love and gratitude by taking care of my room. I say nothing. I'm a teenager, and his words will not hit home for several years.
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I painstakingly strip the soggy sheets off his bed, peeling layer after layer of soiled padding from his mattress. I haul it to the washing machine. When it's all nicely cleaned and dry, I'll make up the bed again, only to do it all over the next morning. I pick up his teeth off the night table, brush them diligently, and hand them off to him, receiving a gummy smile before he pops them into place and rolls his chair toward the kitchen, where I'll serve him his breakfast and wash up the dishes. I watch him struggle, and I'm filled with love and gratitude that I get to share this time with him.
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I am 37. My grandma, his wife of more than 60 years, has died. I'm the one visiting, this time. His grief is overwhelming, but dementia has yet to claim his mind. (I don't know it now, but it's the last time I'll spend with him when he knows my name.) After all is said and done, it's time to go back home. I'm hugging him tight, willing his spirit to feel how much I love him. As we pull apart, he grabs both my hands in his and stops me. "I love you," he says. He looks intently into my eyes, his own brimming with tears. "I want you to have a good life," he tells me. Oh my god, he thinks it's the last time he'll see me. (Neither of us knows now that though it won't be, in a way, it is. The next time, he'll suffer from debilitating memory loss.) I swallow my heart back down to where it belongs, and kiss his forehead. Shaking, I walk to the car and get in. All I can do is drive away, when all I want to do is crawl into his lap and be little again.
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I rub the soothing oil into his 95-year-old feet, and I consider what this remarkable man has given me. It seems so brutal that he can no longer control his body or his mind. I can't help the couple of tears that escape, falling hot onto his feet. I'm remembering all these things.... and then I remember another. It's a Bible story. A woman knelt before Jesus, and "weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with the fragrant oil." I am a little taken aback by the similarity, and then I understand - This is what love feels like.
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What she wrote really touched me. And, it made me think about Love. When the poet, Robert Browning, wrote about love, he used phrases like "do out the duty." I think he was on to something. It's not "sparkage," and it's not romance, as wonderful as these things are. Love is something more.
It's that willingness to do what previously would have been unthinkable, to perform duties that we would much rather not do. It's the act we perform that doesn't benefit us in any way; the actions we would, if not for the love we feel, prefer someone else do. In fact, if we're being honest, it is those things we would prefer not need doing at all. It is subjecting ourselves to circumstance and the demands of others when the result only benefits others and may well, in fact, lead to our harm.
That is the kind of love that drove Jesus to "do out the duty" of the Passion, despite His great desire to not do it. When we read Matthew 26 and 27, we get, maybe, an inkling of how horrible it was for Him. Hopefully, we also get that what He endured was for us, that by doing the duty, He was sending us a message across all the centuries: I love you this much, enough to do all these things I would much rather not do.
Jesus loves us like my friend loves her Grandfather ... and like he has always loved her.
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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Liturgy of the Palms (April 9, 2017)
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29
Matthew 21:1-11
Liturgy of the Passion (April 9, 2017)
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66
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We're coming up to a week of triumphal entry, horrible exit, and triumphal re-entry. It is a time of nobility and obedience. Join us at Lectionary Breakfast Friday morning as we spend time with Jesus and His disciples at the end ... and the beginning.
We continue to meet at the Waco "Egg and I" restaurant, starting at 8:00 and ending around 9:00. The food is good, the fellowship better, and the discussion excellent. For an hour, we "do out the duty" in a unique way, sharing ourselves with each other through prayer, scripture reading, and a robust exchange of ideas.
See you there?
Blessings,
Steve
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