An Empty Chair

A few years ago, when I was still working at the church, my pastor friend and I were preparing to go on the monthly visit to the local nursing homes.  We would go and sing a few songs with the residents, she would give a short message and we would serve communion. I have never been very comfortable in nursing homes,  it is just way out of my comfort zone! One of the first times I went along with her as the residents either walked, shuffled or were wheeled into the day room I joined in and started greeting them, or easier for me was the passing out of songbooks with a nice smile and 'good morning'.  After we sang, as the message was presented, I sat and looked at those men and women who had gathered.  For some this was the highlight of their month - to sing a little (often without even looking at the words, the songs were old, familiar and comforting) hear the Gospel and then receive Communion. It was a special time. For others I often wondered if they even knew we were there. Still others were unable to receive the bread and wine, since they could no longer swallow - yet a  touch and blessing was given to each. Then there were still others - unable to even be brought to the day room, and we would walk through the halls to their rooms, again to pray and serve that special 'meal' and leave a blessing. I was the one who walked away blessed. Those monthly nursing home communion visits soon became one of my favorite parts of church ministry.

One particular day, as I sat off to the side watching the residents while my pastor friend delivered a word for them, in that short 8-10 minutes I noticed something, especially in the women.  As some of them sat there for this church service, wearing their best sweater and often a touch of rouge and pearls I saw my mother.  Each of these women that came to that day room had a story - at first glance they were stooped, wrinkled, hurt, alone and ill.  Yet they were also mothers, daughters, wives and sisters- they each had a vibrant life at one point that was not evident by looking at those old worn out bodies sitting around a nursing home day room.  At the time my mother was also sitting in another town, across the state in an assisted living facility with Parkinson's related dementia. Living across the state and lots of driving hours away I didn't visit her often, but when I did I saw a woman, still dressed beautifully, and often with her jewelry on, but only a shell of the strong and hard working lady that I knew as my mom.   She lost her ability to speak, she had compression fractures in her spine so also had to be assisted in and out of bed, and for her other needs.  Right outside her room was a wonderful display that my sister and I had put together. Pictures of Mom and Dad both in their military uniforms during WWII, pictures of them smiling and laughing as newlyweds and other pictures of Mom with us and her grandchildren. There were snapshots with friends in her many service organizations and many of  her awards for career and community accomplishments.  To the visitor, like me in these local nursing homes, she was simply another old and 'broken' woman, but I knew her story.

My mother loved to dance! Early in our marriage Waylon and I hosted New Year's Eve parties in our home and this was the first time Mom attended one, before she moved to Texas.  This was NYE of 1984 (I can see the 1983 and 1984 picture collages hanging in the background) and even in our smallish living room we managed to dance!  

                                         Waylon and Billie  - "cuttin' the rug"

There was an 'empty chair' already - my Dad.  He died at age 58 so he missed these fun adult times with us.  Mom would dance with any willing partner at any party!

Yesterday as I drove into town for errands on the outskirts of town is one of the local nursing homes.  On the porch sits a row of chairs.  Often there are residents sitting in those chairs, this time there was only one man outside.  He was sitting alone, looking out toward the street.  I wondered - was he remembering his youth? Was he thinking about the home or job he used to have, or perhaps the family he was waiting for to walk up that sidewalk to come for a visit? I don't know his story.  I do know, however, that he has one.   My mother was 61 years old in this picture - I will be 60 on my next birthday.  It has been 6 years this month since she left us at the age of 87.  I am remembering her story.  How she and my Dad taught me to research issues and exercise my right to vote.  She taught me how to be responsible in my work, and follow through on things I promise.  She was hard on me - she set high expectations.  Did we always get along or see eye to eye?  No - we had a rocky time of it.  I realize now that it was because I am very much like her.  I regret not listening to more of her stories, though I do know a lot of them.  I am saddened that I let our strong personalities get in the way of listening to each other more. I also remember, vividly, how I looked up to her and followed her example in more ways than I can count.  I am a strong and independent woman largely because I grew up watching her.  

Don't wait for an empty chair and missed opportunities - listen to those around you and learn their stories because if you don't who will?

Proverbs 22:6 Direct your children onto the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it.  NLT

Thank you Willa Mae Davis Koplin, (Billie, Mom) for teaching me to be an honest and trustworthy person.  Perhaps by telling a smidgen of our story it will prompt others to not neglect hearing more of their loved ones' stories.  You are missed.