LESSONS FROM
MY FATHER'S LAMP

Elizabeth Raid

I tucked him into bed tonight. Curled in fetal position, he looked so small and helpless. The familiar words of a lullaby came naturally, followed by the Twenty Third Psalm. I knew he would want the blanket over his shoulders, so I pulled it up, told him I loved him, and kissed him "good-night."

As I walked from his darkened room to the hallway, I wanted to scream at God: "It’s not fair! I’m not supposed to be putting to bed the one who tucked me in when I was a child!"

The scene in the hall stopped me from shouting out loud. Four women holding hands sat in a row of chairs. The nurse in the middle was talking quietly to soothe the fears one woman had of being lost. Ninety-three-year-old Fanny’s hair piled neatly on her head, along with her trim figure dressed in a tailored suit and silk blouse, gave her an air of elegance that hardly matched her current state of agitation.

I knew I needed to say something before I would have permission to pass this lineup. Despite my inner agitation, I stopped to add words of calmness and comfort to those of the nurse. Not wanting to linger, I muttered something about the rain and my bicycle getting wet, so I needed to go. The nurse suggested they say a prayer to ask God to take care of them. I knew I was too angry to pray, so I left.

I focused my gaze as I walked toward the elevator. Marie would be waiting for anyone who passed to pay attention. Yesterday I had smiled, told her how beautiful her hair looked, held her hand. Always wordless, her response had surprised me: She pulled my hand to her lips and kissed it. I had thanked God for the gift of human touch as I gave her a parting blessing.

Today I wanted no contact. My thoughts were with my 89-year-old father, curled up in the narrow nursing home bed. What had happened to his 40-year association with our church college as professor, registrar, librarian, archivist? The many church boards he had helped start and served on? His interests in history, community, geography, geology, business, writing, study of Scripture and preaching, woodworking, and letter writing?

I pondered these questions as I cycled quickly through the drizzling rain back to Dad’s house where I was living. My dark and dampened spirit wondered if I should stop coming to visit every day, if I should separate myself from this painful situation.

As I parked the bicycle inside the garage, I remembered his students had given him that bicycle when he retired from teaching. I shook the rain off my dark green jacket and laid it out to dry on the bicycle basket. How I wished I could as easily shake off the sadness of seeing him suffer from Alzheimer’s disease!

Inside the house, I settled myself at the desk he had made in 1941. My church history books waited and my note pad remained half full of notes as I looked at the rich walnut paneling in his study and the sturdy but shapely turned lamp on the desk.

I studied that lamp. It was still a lamp, though it had occupied that same place for over 30 years. It could be useful, but without someone to turn it on, it could not function as intended. I turned the knob. Soft light filled the room and lingered on my hand as I held it close to the bulb. The warmth began to soften my thoughts of doubt and despair.

One week ago my daughter and her husband brought their seven-week-old daughter to visit. Kate is my first grandchild, so I wanted to introduce her, his first great-grandchild, to my father. Every evening for weeks before their visit we looked at her picture. I named her and, knowing Dad’s love of family history, told him repeatedly how she was related and how special it was that he is now a great-grandfather. This once articulate man would nod, smile, and say, "Yup" when I asked if he knew they were related.

When the young family arrived near the noon meal, I hustled everyone to see Dad. I knew that after lunch he would take a long nap. He was in his wheelchair in the lunchroom. His head rested on the table and his hands rubbed his head. Attempts to arouse him failed. He would sit up but continued to keep his eyes shut. Baby Kate slept on too, content with her new surroundings.

We snapped pictures and got oldest and youngest to hold hands while sleeping. I played familiar hymns on the piano and sang as I often did during the evening meal. Dad woke enough to eat with some help, then we snapped more pictures, finally having everyone with open eyes.

Dad may have slept through most of the meeting, but the four women in a row holding hands looked at baby Kate with wide eyes and bright smiles. Speechless Beth said a complete sentence: "Look at the baby!" Harriet giggled and held Kate’s little hand. Francine patted Kate’s head.

Too soon my children and granddaughter were gone. It had not been the perfect meeting I had planned. Did Dad know they had been there? Had some connection passed from one generation to another when they held hands? I would never know.

I could only give a prayer of thanks that they had met and the three of us who took the pictures could tell the story of their meeting. This drama extended beyond Dad and his great-granddaughter. It was larger than the brief happiness it brought to four Alzheimer’s patients on a winter day.

I realized that the stories of our lives can continue even when we no longer are able to remember or understand who we were or what ways we contributed to the world. The light may appear to be out, but the spirit remains, waiting to be touched and given possibilities to shine, if in a way different from its earlier full strength.

Those of us who remain carry the responsibility to continue to tell the stories, even the painful parts. We also find ourselves called to respond in caring ways to those who no longer can tell their own stories or express their basic needs. Some days are harder than others. At times not seeing others suffer is the easy way out.

But in a world less than perfect, God calls us, I sense amid the shadows of my journey with my father, to extend the hand of love and care to those who suffer in ways and for reasons we will never understand. We can give thanks for the rich, full lives they lived and the many people they influenced. We can tell them they are lovely and loved by God—just as they are now. When we gently touch, hold a hand, breath a prayer, sing a favorite hymn, read a psalm, whistle, draw a picture, we are the presence of God for them.

When I am honest about my feelings of loss and anger, I allow God to give me deeper compassion and love. Then I too am blessed as those experiencing diminishment add grace and light to my life. Both of us can light the lamp. However it is lit, it brightens and warm a cold world, even if only for a few moments.

—Elizabeth Raid , Newton, Kansas, recently completed seminary studies. She is Resource Development Coordinator for Mennonite Central Committee, Central States.