Even before we finished the first hymn, I knew that taking Aaron Charles Hoffman with me to the nursing home had been a good idea. More faces than usual were raised and turned in my direction. There were smiles on more of them. A number of folks were actually singing!
Ministry in nursing homes has always been one of my favorite pastoral duties, in some sense precisely because of the challenge. Over the course of their long lives, nursing-home residents have heard and seen it all. Especially in their latter days, they have been subjected to many assaults upon their freedom and dignity. In consequence, they have built strong emotional armor.
At 16 months of age, with a cloud of wispy, blond hair, Aaron Charles pierced their armor. For the entire forty minutes of this Thursday-morning worship service, I carried Aaron in my arms. And just to make sure I had all the ammunition I might need, I also brought with me Aaron’s two sisters: Rachael Ann, a 4-year-old blonde, and Elizabeth Eileen, a 6-year-old who had forgone kindergarten this morning “to go see the grammas and grampas.”
In response to the children’s presence, Anna, a resident who in all my previous visits had only chanted, “I’m hungry; I want some soup,” now conversed about the kind of soup she would prefer. “Bean soup with a ham bone,” she told me, “but of course, potato soup with a big chunk of polish sausage would also do quite nicely.”
John, a 90-year-old who had never been more than polite, started talking with Mary, the children’s mother, and told her more about his life in ten minutes than I’d been able to learn in three years.
Some of the nursing-home staff, who typically viewed the presence of the clergy as an opportunity to take a break, stayed for the service. Not since the first service three years ago (when, I suspect, they remained to see whether I could deal with Anna’s interruptions) had any of them actually participated. Today, however, three took seats in the back row.
The service went longer than usual. Because I had been holding Aaron, I hadn’t been able to look at my notes. Winging it is never efficient, so the time dragged. But no one seemed bored.
After the benediction, the staff arose and began wheeling the residents back to their rooms. Aaron had fallen asleep on my shoulder, and I was tired, too, so I sat on a front bench while Mary, Elizabeth, and Rachael continued with their visiting. Sitting directly across from me was Hilda, a woman who had never said a word to me before. She began telling me about the long-ago death of her son, talking as if we were old friends.
I didn’t know how to respond. The sharing was so sudden and unexpected. But 6-year-old Elizabeth, who had made her way back to the front of the room, knew just what to do. She leaned toward Hilda as though she wanted to comfort her. All Elizabeth needed, I thoughts was a bit of permission.
“Would you like to hold Hilda’s hand?” I asked.
“No!”
“Would you like to give Hilda a kiss to show her you love her?”
Before the words were fully out of my mouth, Elizabeth threw herself over the side of Hilda’s wheelchair, grabbed her with both arms, and began showering Hilda’s cheeks with kisses. For an instant Hilda looked bewildered, and then she started to cry, though she was smiling, too, as she returned the embrace.
Elizabeth couldn’t make all of Hilda’s pain go away, of course. But what a ministry of mercy! As the attendant wheeled Hilda away, I resolved that from then on, every time I conducted a nursing-home service, I would bring the children. The most effective ministry, I had seen, is often the simplest. Christ can come through a three-point sermon, but often he chooses a hug.
-David Trembley
Faith American Baptist Church
Germantown, Wisconsin
Copyright © 1988 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
