Community - At the End of the Hall 11-30-9

Anderson, South Carolina

One of the great fears that many of us have is spending our golden years at the end of the hall in a long-term care facility. For many who find themselves in this circumstance without visitors or family, the intensity of loneliness and isolation can be staggering; time nearly comes to a standstill for those living in this reality. Days flow into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, years into decades. Exile seems a cruel and unjust punishment. Yet, magic does germinate and bloom in such places.

Throughout my adult life, detours into nursing homes have been an important part of my journey. The opportunity for education and friendship is immense. Within the walls of these facilities the potential for community can be surreal. In nursing homes there is an abundance of unfragmented time and a scarcity of to-do lists. Errands, yard work, jobs, deadlines, and a thousand other impediments to community have been left behind. Even cell phones are a rarity. What one finds in these institutions is an abundance of magnificent people, often hundreds of them, with centuries of wisdom, memories, and grand stories; people who have all the time in the world for you and each other.

Here in the outer world we live our time-starved lives frantically, desperate to get to the next place on our lists, living in the future and forfeiting the mindfulness of the present. We find ourselves exhausted by the race and don’t even know where we have gotten, if anywhere. So often things like marriages, serenity, contentment, purpose, and community have been lost along the way; unnoticed.

I’m not sure what inspired my first journey into a nursing home. They are not the sort of places that show up on tourist brochures or destination web-sites. During a lifetime of epic journeys around the world, these warehouses for the aged were never on my itineraries. Yet, some of my most profoundly meaningful experiences in life have occurred in the nursing homes I have visited, especially those within walking distance of my house.

In recent months I have renewed my personal commitment to visit the residents of the red brick buildings behind my house more consistently, knowing that during the holiday season the greatest gift is that of one’s time, in a time-challenged world. Some of us don’t have enough of it and others seem to have too much of it. There is genuinely no more satisfying way to spend a cerulean Sunday afternoon than in the unhurried company of the platinum haired oracles living in this home, to bask in their gratitude for the true gift of time.

One of the greatest regrets held by residents of long-term care is the loss of community they once embraced in their churches. Many of the women in wheelchairs up and down the halls once had hours of happy frivolity in the kitchens of their churches, keeping the rest of us lazy men well fed and happy. They had decades of inspiring service as Sunday school teachers and members of the choir. They cared for altars, vestments, and other fabrics of our worship experience. Most of all, they care for our hearts in ways us men are clueless about. The most important thing I do all week is take church to those who will never again see the inside of their beloved spiritual homes. It always astounds me how detailed and vivid memory is in these people who supposedly have Alzheimer’s or other thieves of history.

Today was another bonus day, nearly 70 degrees, dry, with cobalt blue skies, despite being the first day of Advent. Arriving at Station Three with my oak box containing the Bread of Heaven and my soul containing an extra measure of optimism for life, life was good. A long-time member of my church, Evelyn, proved interested in having a communion service. Another member, Margie, declined. At nearly 97 years of age, life sometimes takes up all of one’s resources.

Evelyn rolled in her wheelchair with me to the end of the hall, where I create a makeshift chancel on the cushion of one of the two side chairs there. Chapels and privacy are low on the list of priorities in nursing homes. There is usually none of either. Feeling slightly conspicuous in this main hall, I put a linen cover and the sterling accoutrements of a portable altar on the burgundy chair cushion. I began the order of service with Evelyn, still feeling more visible and exposed than I liked.

All things work together for good; even interruptions. After several minutes, Margie rolled up, suddenly eager to participate. Really pleased, I started over. It never hurts to reread scriptures out loud. A bit more time elapsed. Velma powered up in her scooter, eager to get in on this. I started again. Soon Ida wheeled over. I continued. Then guys started showing up. A big burly fellow, Ken, appeared with a guitar case. James then joined in. Others added themselves.

There are those moments at the edge of the day when dense gray clouds suddenly detonate with impossible hues of crimson, alizarin red, cadmium orange, scarlet, gold, and platinum, all at once. It lasts but seconds, yet we are stunned into a profound grateful mindfulness of the glorious moment. Just last night the western sky was feeling generous and for several minutes we basked in chromatic abundance. And so it was just now.

Sacred community suddenly germinated and bloomed, in full color. A fragrant sense of inclusiveness and belonging inspired us all; a shared intensity of affection felt for those present was indescribable. The end of our hall was suddenly transformed from a gray blind end of an institution for the elderly into a sanctuary of the greatest beauty. The luminous interiors of sanctuaries, centuries in the building, have nothing on our makeshift arrangement of side chairs, wheelchairs, and power scooters. The hundred-rank organs of 17th century Europe have nothing on Ken’s guitar. Great high altars of 13th century Gothic wonders of the world have nothing on my little oak box set up on a chair cushion.

A montage of individuals, young, ancient, sick, vital, Protestant, Catholic, uncertain, rich, poor, educated, not-so-educated; became one. Community is that way. “We who are many are one body, because we all share one bread, one cup.”

You might just be someone’s greatest gift. Invite ‘em to your table. You don’t need a credit card to give lavishly.