I'm dying, the old lady announced to the two of us at the dinner table. She had arrived late and was sitting looking disoriented. Do you know how old I am? She asked it as a question and not the prelude to an admission, but we had only met once before and barely knew her name, certainly not her age.
Our quiet conversation paused as we considered answers. 94, she told us. 94. Well, she is statistically probably closer to death than I am, but not much ahead of mom and she was looking well, though confused.
A resident down the hall did pass away a couple days ago. Maybe that was preying on her mind. This little microcosm of life in a residential home is a weird sort of snapshot of life outside. All sorts of people walking each other home.
We said a few things. Consolations for her confusion. Encouraged her with smiles and pats. After dinner she thanked us, but we had done nothing and said little. Praying that God's peace embraced her in those moments of disorientation and that today will dawn brighter for her.
She was the one I wanted to avoid, because she had been so grumpy. Forgive me, Lord, when I let my feelings judge one of your children.
A California girl from a hot beach city marries a country loon from the cold northeast of Scotland, and she's spent the last three decades making sense out of life there. Reflections on a rural lifestyle, on identity issues and the challenges of moving so far from home,from a Christian viewpoint.
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