the nursing home birthday

We had been sitting quietly for a few minutes when the front doors opened, giving way to a group of five young people. After a quick glance around the lobby, they approached the receptionist window, where one of the young women engaged the receptionist in hesitant conversation. Clumped together in a quiet circle, they looked scared, shy and entirely out of their element in the retirement home. I could hardly blame them—I was the same at their age. What were they anyway…in their twenties or so? Squinting, I watched them look around nervously, wondering what sort of project or sense of obligation had brought them to the recreation room at 7 at night. There was always a reason that brought them…always. They’d come, do their good deed, then retreat through the very doors they entered, never to be seen again.

The detached objectivity of such visits caused my heart to inwardly groan and wish they’d never come. I didn’t quite want to be there, to have be entertained, to have to enjoy their do-gooder ministry. But I wasn’t tired enough to go to bed, nor was I well enough to wheel myself back to my room. It looked like I didn’t have much of a choice. I made sure my wheel-chair was locked into place before tucking in the blanket on my lap. With a tired sigh, I paid little attention to the center director as she introduced the group to us, contenting myself instead with observing our visitors.

A blonde young lady took a seat at the piano; after the first few measures, I sat up a bit straighter, for she was playing a hymn. I had to admit she did a beautiful job. Some of those seated around me were humming and nodding their heads appreciatively; a few even raised frail voices in praise. I listened for a while, closing my eyes, letting the notes and the promises of God within the songs calm my roused spirit.

With the music a steady and relaxing backdrop, I continued to study the young people. Another one of the women – who was very tall with short dark hair -- had gotten out a pad of paper and a pencil and began sketching some of my neighbors. I watched as she drew a face for about fifteen minutes, her eyes looking up at her subject with something like wonder before relaying what she’d seen to the sketch pad in her lap. Was she sketching to fulfill some artistic requirement at her school? Did she study the lines in a face much older and more defined than her own? I was surprised as I witnessed her giving her model the finished drawing as a gift.

“You’re giving this to me?” the older woman asked, incredulous. She studied the picture she held in trembling hands. “Do you think I look old?”

“No…” the young lady immediately replied, an earnest honesty lighting her countenance. “You’re beautiful.” From the way she said it, I could tell she meant it from the bottom of her heart. And even though she didn’t say it to me, I could imagine how my friend felt at that moment.

Presently a thin brunette in a skirt appeared at my side, smiling down at me. “Hi! May I sit by you?”

“Certainly.”

I watched as she plopped down on the left side of my chair; somehow I knew this girl – like the girl who was drawing portraits – was unlike any of the other young women from past visiting groups. She didn’t stand awkwardly next to me in her own little bubble, nor did she peer condescendingly down at me, wondering what to say. I could see the regard in her upturned eyes when she asked me my name. “Helen,” I answered gruffly, suddenly self-conscious of the oxygen tubes in my nose. “What’s yours?”

“Jo…Katie Jo.”

It was the beginning of the most interesting conversation I’d had in a while.

“Can I give you a hand massage, Miss Helen? I have a lotion with me…it smells like Sweet Pea…” Of course I couldn’t say no; who would? So the next thing I knew, this young lady held my weathered old hands in her youthful ones as though she were holding a treasure. She chattered away like a bird in the springtime while she rubbed the lotion between my fingers and on my palms; her eyes lit up when she inquired about my own life, and listened as though she really cared. After that was finished, she produced a handful of handmade bracelets. “They’re from Guatemala,” she explained, telling me how she bought them while visiting the country last month. “Would you like one?” I nodded, lifting my arm so that she could tie it around my wrist. I couldn’t speak anything more than a thank-you.

She surprised me again when a Bible appeared, and I was struck by the tenderness in which she held the Book. She leaned close and lifted hopeful eyes to my face. When was the last time anyone had looked up to me like she did now? “Do you have a favorite Scripture that I could read to you, Miss Helen?” My eyes threatened to fill with tears as I nodded.

“Oh yes…read anything. It’s all good.”

After reading two chapters from the Psalms, the young lady asked – to my delight -- if she could pray for me. As if hearing the Word of God wasn’t enough! I listened to her speaking to the LORD on my behalf, thanking Him myself as she prayed for sending her to me this night. At her amen, I touched her head.

“You’re an angel,” I said, my voice choking up.

She shook her head with a half-smile on her face. “No…I’m not really.”

“Oh but you are,” I insisted, smiling my sincerity.

“I am the one who has been blessed to spend time with you,” she said, rising from the spot on the floor at my feet.

We exchanged goodbyes, and the rest of her group was preparing to leave. However, I could tell from the look in her eyes that she had one more thing to say. “Guess what today is, Miss Helen!”

I couldn’t have guessed for the entire world. I took her hand.“What is today?”

She grinned, leaned toward me, and half-whispered, “It’s my birthday!”

"It is?! How old are you?"

"Twenty-one!"

“Well, happy birthday,” I gushed, squeezing her hand one last time.

It wasn’t until after she and her friends had gone that I considered and thanked God for the kindness of the girl who gave up the last few hours of her twenty-first birthday to visit someone like me…