Lolita, Deanna and Pat have real jobs—along with being full-time mothers and wives, family counselors and family taxi drivers. Yet, at least once each week, they slip into a phone booth and trade their "mom duds" for "angel wings."
Lolita, Deanna and Pat love Grammy. Not because they're related to her, but because we love her.
Grammy is 94, of sound mind and broken body. It's one of the devil's most effective curses—stealing mobility but leaving a mind alive.
That's where Grammy's landed. Her knees are undependable, her left side functioning "only a bit," and everything's jabbing painful messages toward her alert brain. Medication dulls the pain, but nothing dulls the sadness.
"I didn't want to end up this way," she sighs as aides lift her from bed to wheelchair and back to bed throughout the day and night.
Often she holds her hands, commanding them to dance the tunes of Bach or Beethoven or to play old favorite hymns on the church organ once again. But they respond little, resting quietly on her lap.
"My hands are silent," she says, "but my mind is playing and, oftentimes, singing Fanny Crosby's words, 'Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!'"
Grammy's in a nursing home, where she receives efficient care. Sometimes, it's "personal" care, filled with touches of compassion from professional caregivers who have become trusted friends. But in a world where everyone is caring for more "grammys" and "grandpapas" than ever before, loneliness is often the emotion of the day.
Except when the angels come.
Lolita's an angel who brings her two teenage daughters at least once a week. "This is way, way outside my comfort zone," she says, "but Grammy Ruby's lonely and I can listen."
Usually they find time to push Grammy and her wheelchair out the side door, through the rose garden and around to the gazebo beside the gardenia bushes. The girls pick roses, test Grammy's smelling skills and then practice their violin and flute for her in the gazebo. Grammy cries, tears that flow like happy rivers down the creases of her face.
Often the curtain sweeps aside as Deanna or Pat fly in. They come often, straightening the covers, reading Grammy her mail, asking about the photos on the wall, listening again to old stories they have come to know well. When they're there, laughter mixes with the tears and healing comes.
It's even better when Grammy's daughter Brenda slips past the curtain and touches her mother's hand. The love bond is so strong that they both glow in each other's presence. Loneliness slips away, and "family" sings an encore. They talk of grandchildren, of Minnesota weather, of broken televisions, of phones that are hard to listen through and of favorite foods. The conversation is endless, always including the quiet squeezes of those who love.
When the angels come, Grammy smiles; the tears stop flowing, and her eyes twinkle with the joy of companionship.
"I love it when people come, people who care!" she says.
Grammy is still Ruby—Dorcas leader, mother and wife, college board member, piano teacher, organist for a dozen churches, baker of fine desserts and filler of hummingbird feeders. But those are often lonely memories, fading photos on the walls of her life.
But when God's angels come, peaceful healing happens.
Dick Duerksen is the official "storyteller" through words and photos for Maranatha Volunteers International. Readers may write Dick at dduerksen@maranatha.org.
