The Rev. Billy Graham, Angels, and Tiny Bubbles: A Story of Hope and Love

On Wednesday, Feb. 21, a man some described as “America’s pastor,” the Rev. Billy Graham, died at age 99. That single event set in motion an adventuresome trip down memory lane for me, as I reflected at length and in depth about my childhood, where I’d first heard him preach in person. He was appearing at the open-air Alamo Stadium, constructed in San Antonio’s Monte Vista district, in 1940 as a Works Progress Administration project (thanks Wikipedia). In those days…life was different.

My mom had decided that since my great aunt Emma and our family friend Charlotte wanted to go hear him, and they didn’t drive, we’d all go to hear him. As a child of six, I was naturally inquisitive, pelting my mom with questions before the service began. Why was church outside and it wasn’t a Sunday? Were these bleachers called pews? Why was there such a long distance between the “congregation” and the minister? Mom patiently answered my questions, the woman who should have been awarded some kind of medal for surviving the raising of an overly inquisitive child.

And then it began. George Beverly Shea sang. I think that’s what I’d once thought the “voice” of God must sound like. Booming, full, inspired, and amazing. I listened to Shea’s voice on his songs, not the lyrics, all except for the alter call: “Just As I Am.” That one, I found myself singing along to, as best I could back then. I was oblivious to the thousands of people around me that day. I was remembering this week what might be my first memory of being lost in meditation or fully in faith.

As an adult, I’m less fixed on structure for terms that relate to a higher power by a name. I generally describe my faith in terms I learned growing up, but I’m open to a greater, more inclusive or less restrictive understanding wherein there is essentially the presence of the spirit I feel is holy, wholly.

At the end, Rev. Graham invited the audience to come forward if we wanted to be “saved.” Again, I whispered to mom, “Mom, do I need to go down there to be saved?” She smiled her angelic smile and shook her head no, saying, “No, honey you were saved when you were born because I gave you back to God. You are his child. You’ve been baptized and there’s no need to go down there.” “Okay,” I answered, strengthened in my decision to remain in my bleacher, err, pew.

Fast forward many decades. Church worship is a subject fraught with a list of “terms and conditions” that many impose on what it feels “right” to do, and when and where and how one can worship. Some Sundays I find comfort in gathering in pews or folding chairs, with longtime friends as family, surrounded by love and belonging. Other Sundays, I can walk in nature, observing the awesome wonder of the world we live in, expressing my appreciation as best I can. There’s no right or wrong for me, really, just a choice that feels like I’ve emerged from my reflection on the week as a stronger person, renewed to try the week ahead with energy and intention. I acknowledge my sins in prayer and ask for forgiveness and a clean slate to try again to do better. I don’t like hearing politics in church, ever, so when I do, I tend to bug out and head for the hills until I’m prepared to return with a calmed heart.

The week behind me had been filled with challenges, some exciting and delightful; others found me in uncharacteristic intense melancholy. I was “stuck” and I didn’t seem to be able to get out of the mud. Along my path came a call from dear friend, to chat about things we had an exciting time discussing, and that conversation cheered me greatly. I had almost snapped out of my blues, intensified by the gray, sun-scarce skies and falling rain. Even with every light in the house on, it wasn’t quite enough to turn the melancholy to cheer.

I kept my head down and kept working, a sure-fire cure for what ails you…make forward progress every day if you can. If you can’t, try anyway. Keep trying.

When she called back an hour later, I fully expected to hear more surprising delightful news. Instead she asked me point blank: “Are you happy? Is everything in your life the way you want it to be right now?” I blinked, swallowed and said, “Well, it’s okay. It will get better. Just staying focused.”

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “What are you going to do to change it?” Fast forward to my receiving a lovely good “talking to,” one that left us both reminded to never give up on our dreams, no matter how absurd or outlandishly unrealistic.

It was in that moment that I snapped to…and was grateful for someone bravely stepping out and sharing truth…I let go of the need to control. And I returned to wait patiently, eyes wide open. Whoa, Nellie. Answers began appearing everywhere around me.

Back to Billy Graham. I thought about him being the minister for so many presidential inaugurations, during the days he preached actively, and his may have been only one of the people in the 60s you could send something to by mail (for a $.03 stamp) just addressed to “Billy Graham, Minneapolis, Minnesota” and it would reach him. That’s impressive.

Plenty of time to reflect in the past 72 hours and seeing challenges met, obstacles overcome, and a renewed focus on my dreams, with no need to control the outcome. All because a faithful friend reached out to ask a question: “What are you going to do to change it?”

Can’t speak for everyone, but the more I thought about the lifelong goal of Billy Graham to serve God and help others, the words to “Just as I am,” and the words of truth I’d heard, they were signals of changes coming for the good, in not only my life but in the lives of many around me who similarly needed to know that they’re not “stuck.”

Saturday morning was priceless time spent, surrounded by 120 (we know, as we counted them) Crayola Crayons, paper, and an active imagination of a 5-year-old and an almost 1-year old and their Pippa. I witnessed unbridled inspiration at work. These are two youngsters who inspire more than they’ll ever know, and they teach equally as much as they enjoy life.

When the 5-year-old was building a house from box and paper, and little brother crawled over to “participate” and ripped the roof off while smiling, I saw an angel in action as his older brother smiled at him, retrieved the paper, and put the roof back on without even as much as a blink of an eye. A little later I suggested we put some of his little brother’s building blocks inside the house to elevate his project. He shook his head no.

“Why not?” I asked. His reply: “Because if we use up a lot of his blocks, he won’t have many left to play with.” Facepalm. V-8 moment. I’m so jazzed about the unconditional love I saw so early between two angels, seen only because I was lucky enough to be there at that moment. If only adults could be so wise.

Saturday night we blew bubbles. Well, I did. And he karate kicked and kung-fu’d them, complete with gales of laughter, a rap verse he made up by himself, and some awesome dancing to a song he heard in his head. Whoa, Nellie. Children are smarter than the rest of us. All the time.

He asked my opinion about how to decorate the roof (now safely reaffixed to the house). Wisely, I didn’t answer his question with my thought, but with another question, “How do you think you’d like to decorate it?” That wasn’t original to me. I’d learned that process from a wise creative named Thomas Bähler, whose own father used that same technique to answer the question “How do you be creative,” asked that way when Thomas was about the same age as my young pal. His answer? “I think it should be a rainbow,” he said, and he proceeded to create a marvelous rainbow.

And then another amazing angel went on an errand with me at my request. Without even questioning why, off we drove in order that I could find a way to break through one final barrier of languishing in “shoulda, coulda, woulda, used to, don’t any more,” and I emerged, quite quickly, renewed and affirmed that life has always been grand, and the past is the past and is just fine safely tucked in the past, and today is the future just around the corner. Put a bow on that box of regrets, sealed it shut and sent it off to the Dead Letter Office. Zoom! Path cleared.

My Sunday morning began beautifully, though, because before I went to sleep last night, a very overworked but very strong friend of grander faith than I have ever had reached out to me to send me an inspirational set of lyrics she wondered if I’d heard…they were new to me, but wonderful. As we “chatted” back and forth via e-mails later into the night, she asked me what had been on my mind this week. And I told her. Her reply to me and the devotional she wrote for me personally arrived this morning on my e-mail. And I smiled, uplifted, and got ready for church. She’d taken the time to start a grand day in motion. Was I ever lucky!

Made it to church, only four minutes late. Thanks to dear friends insisting I sit with whenever I’m there…I took a seat in the pew in front of them and felt welcomed. I was about to stare a hole in the stained-glass window to my left as I waited for inspiration. Nothing was flowing to mind as I waited.

Suddenly, 10 minutes into the service, the children’s anthem, “This Little Light of Mine,” blew me out of my discomfort and into sheer joy. I saw the oldest daughter of two dear friends singing her heart out, correctly with all the motions, joyfully. And then there was one voice up there not quite in sync with the rest of them.

Not quite sure who it was—she had a good, strong, voice, but she had her own timing, and her own movements—she had the “X factor” of pizazz. She just wasn’t in lockstep with the rest of the children, but she didn’t seem perturbed, nor did her fellow singers. Again, with children and their unconditional ability to love.

I’d spotted my kindred spirit up there…I understood her. At the end of the song, the audience, err, congregation clapped, and the one I’d spotted, sure enough, waved joyously to the crowd after the applause, in you know, “the God bless you, thank you, and drive safely” benediction, with joy. Reminded me of another dear friend right after she’s received a standing ovation. That unparalleled joy and showing love of music—that’s what to aim for! Sing your song, shine your light, make a difference, even if you don’t accomplish it in a traditional way.

Five minutes later, at the end of my pew came a gentleman whose appearance was slightly disheveled, though to be fair, there had been quite a bit of wind and weather that had blown all of us through the doors of the sanctuary this morning. Two people in a pew, as far apart from one another as one can possibly be spaced, because we’d both entered the pew from different doorways to reach our spot du jour.

As my mind wandered slightly during the service, I’d contemplated my seatmate, who focused straight ahead, intently, doing a far better job of paying attention, I suppose, than I was. As the end of the service approached, I’d reached the inevitable decision point. You know how, at the end of services, the minister asks you to reach out and take the hand of the person next to you during the group prayer? I knew that was coming.

And I didn’t fear taking his hand. I just didn’t want to scare him off. Sometimes when you’re in the company of people who all seem to be different in that they all seem to know each other, the separation created by being “new” or “different” can be more daunting to the newcomer.

One thing our church does well, at least by many members, is to welcome people around them with sincere greetings and warm handshakes and exchange of kind words. I love that. Two of my three seatmates/buddies behind me grew up in this church, and they are primo at inviting people to join them. But it was all about my duty to be welcoming, and it was just me and the stranger in my pew.

After the sermon and the acolytes had extinguished the candles, the pastor was inviting us to stand. So, I stood and moved gently down the pew to the stranger, all the while thinking that, even though he didn’t know me, I hoped he trusted me to stay there and not take off out the door wanting to exit before the rest of us. He stayed firm.

The pastor then invited anyone in the congregation to come forward to the altar rail to pray as long as they wanted to (shades of Billy Graham again) as the organist began to play, and we began to sing, all the verses of “Just As I Am” (Really? I’d forgotten just how many verses there were. Oddly I didn’t have to look up at the big bouncing letters on the screens…they just came back from my retrograde memory).

With the first note of the song, he left the pew and went down to the altar to pray. My three pewmates behind me jettisoned down the same direction so that he wouldn’t have to be up there alone while praying. Still others went down to pray. I stayed behind. Before the end of the song, he returned to our pew again. For that entire song, I’d felt his pain. Whatever was seemingly troubling him, or was it me, just seered through me like a lightning bolt. I began to find tears welling up and then stinging my eyes as they rolled down my face. Darn it. Why did I have to cry? BFF says, “Don’t fight the feeling when you cry; you need to cry.” Okay. Noted.

When next the congregational prayer time came, I reached for his hand and he held mine securely. His hands had seen a hard day’s work, but they were gentle as he held mine in his. I placed my left arm on the right shoulder of the young man in front of me, whose hand I have held the past few weeks. He is an amazing child whose struggles with a spectrum make his accomplishments more powerful than grownups twice his age.

Children, you know, feel everything even when they don’t understand it. He saw the tears in my eyes and moved his left hand around his chest and up onto his shoulder placing it over mine, comforting me. A powerful healing and repair of my spirit of hope happened, and I felt it. As the prayer ended, the gentleman looked at me, even though my red eyes and tear-stained face were probably pretty scary.

“God bless you,” he said, as he looked deep into my eyes, waiting for mine to look back and see his spirit behind his face. I did. I found my voice and said, “Thank you, and God bless you.” He smiled and said, “He has blessed me. You see, I’m an evangelist and I travel all around preaching God’s word, and starting all kinds of trouble everywhere,” he said with a light smile. I knew what he meant. Disrupting status quo can freak some people out, but the true search for a higher power, some call it God, some call it Spirit or the Divine, means searching your own soul for truth and finding kindred souls and spirits who resonate on the same wavelength you do, I think.

As he left the church, a friend behind me said she’d seen him outside the church before service began, seemingly walking past our church and down a few blocks towards the main intersection. She said, “I guess he decided to come back into our church this morning.” I nodded and said, “Yes, he did. He picked our church to join us this morning.”

People have their choices of worship across our twin cities. Some congregations gather together because they believe the same thing. Others gather in mega groups to provide a haven from those who believe the same thing or their thing or our thing. I’m the most multi-ecumenical person I know, in that I feel at home in every denomination and those places without, because I’m there to hear a word of hope and reassurance that this world with all its imperfections is not “all there is.” And I find comfort in that.

I went to church this morning, and “they took me to church this morning.” The little girl who waved broadly and smiled at the crowd when she’d completed her song. The gentleman stranger who revealed himself as an evangelist before leaving the congregation. And, the appearance of loved ones in my life throughout the past four days, finding their way into my world from places seen and unseen, and the powerful lessons of never giving up on your dreams really packed a wallop. Yet, I was rejuvenated rather than exhausted with the transformation that happened.

My takeaway from the activities and experiences is this: angels are all around us, some we see, others we can’t spot. We have this day to express love to all those in our lives, whether we know them or not. Children are the most honest group of people you can ever hope to meet. The love of children heals adults with hugs.

As our nation heard from young adults in Parkland, Florida this week, the future of our country is in good hands. We are right to have hope, even when you think it’s time to throw in the towel. This is not about politics. It’s about the willingness of young people to speak up and take a stand, any stand they wish, but to speak up and express their opinions. These young people who needed healing the most were the ones doing the healing by reassuring a nation that they were determined is the major gift of the week. Powerful.

And while Billy Graham went to his heavenly home this week, if you’ll allow me my childlike construct of what we all call “the next place,” it seems that hundreds of angels appeared in our world to continue his spirit of goodness, love, light, and sharing what they believe with those who will listen.

To share unconditional love with others is a wonderful goal of the day, every day. Tiny bubbles blown into the air that caused a child to laugh with joy and gift me with his wisdom; the silent expression of love that an energetic infant makes as I hold him close and he surrenders his energy to my shoulders, to take comfort and rest; worship songs from old hymnals reminding us of rituals of childhood that were as much a part of our DNA as they remain today. Sharing time with friends and loved ones, in person or by phone or by e-mail—all these things together represent so many reasons to be joyful, optimistic, and unceasing in being hopeful about tomorrow.

Just as I am, indeed. Rest in peace Rev. Graham and thank you for reminding us through your life that one person can make an impression, one that can last a lifetime. Here’s to a grand week ahead for everyone.

Finding an Angel on Christmas Day

This story begins as many have in years past, with my friend Mildred, but it has a far different ending than you’d expect, if you’ve been following this Christmas tradition for a few years. This Christmas, I was actually planning on mixing up my usual routine, determined to begin some new traditions while ending others I’d outgrown. I’d saved all my holiday cards to open for this day, and started a lovely pile (which as yet remain unopened) and placed presents off to the right so I’d have something special to see today.

As a child, Mom would always allow me to open one of her gifts to me on Christmas Eve, so my wait for Santa wouldn’t be so tough. I don’t know how she managed to do it, but she created magic every year. Her sense of pageantry, ceremony, stories, songs we played on my record player, and her retelling of her rituals as a child was part of our grand tradition. I’m lucky that I’m now the repository of all her generation’s stories, as nothing was written down (who had time?). Today, only two of her generation are left to recall life, but only from where their memories begin. Lesson to others: share your stories with those who care!

Christmas Eve decorations included a small chapel, a nativity scene surrounding it, and an angel statuette she added from the what-not shelf, deciding it belonged there. It was fun to assemble the setting and my earliest learned duties were the “mechanical things” (now this meant assembling the color wheel to shine on an aluminum tree), which meant I got the box out of the closet, pulled out the motor platform, located the wingnut and secured it atop the color wheel.

I realize that’s not brain surgery, but when your mom spends time affirming your skills when you even know what a wingnut is, you just tend to feel good about yourself, albeit modestly so. Before anyone says “aww,” that aluminum was not a “real” tree, bottom line was that I had a major childhood severe allergy to cedar, pine, and fir trees. Flocked trees were fine, but those had faded from easy availability. The aluminum tree was the preferred medium for celebration and you really should have seen that color wheel at work! Stop laughing. It was pretty! I’ve outgrown those allergies, fortunately.

Today it was time for another tradition, the annual visit with Mildred, my 102.5-year-old friend, over at one of the local nursing facilities. It’s been exceedingly hard this year because I feared what condition I might find her in, and as much as I adore her, she used to say quite adamantly, “When I can’t be myself, I don’t want to be here!” And the last time I saw her with a mutual friend, she was sleeping through most of the day and neither of us expected it to be that much longer. We were both wrong.

Expecting to see what I’d seen before, I’d written out a simple note on a small greeting card that had two angels on it. Her quarters include a corkboard where special items can be pinned, so this was the first year I showed up without an angel gift. My intention was to pin her card to her corkboard in the suite where triangularly placed curtains turned one suite into three private sleeping areas, and then just sit quietly by her bedside, not expecting her to know whether I was there. I was wrong, which pleased me greatly.

When I arrived on her floor, I asked the LVN in the hall which room she might be resting in, the LVN smiled readily and said, “Oh no, she’s down in the dining room, eating dinner.” I said “What? In the dining room? Sitting up?” With my two-word sentences, the LVN was so polite when she could easily have dismissed my astonishment as ignorance. Eagerly, I bounded down the hallway and saw her propped up in a rolling chair almost as big as she was, bigger perhaps.

She spotted me quickly and seemed pleased for a moment, but the joy turned just as quickly to displeasure. Her face grimaced a little, but I didn’t take it personally because when I can’t figure something out right away either, I’m told I look unhappy, disappointed, or something else when I’m working through a puzzle in my mind, until I understand it. So, that’s where she was in the process. A kind LVN had charge of feeding Mildred, another lady who enjoyed a nap between bites and a sweet gentleman I’ve seen before who’d cleared his plate. This is a unique arrangement around a semicircular table, but it works well.

I didn’t say much as Mildred was gradually taking the forks of food that the LVN was silently counting that each patient took. She’d look over now and then, and all I’d do is smile reassuringly. Some of the words she said rapidly didn’t make sense but then she got into a flow of some and they weren’t directed at me. Her handsome LVN probably had more of her attention, understandably.

Eventually, I opened her card for her and she saw the angel, and didn’t seem pleased either. I asked her, “Do you like it? It’s an angel!” And her answer was direct, “No!!” Hmm. Okay. Granted it wasn’t the clearest angel drawing, but it was pretty and colorful, old-fashioned card. I stayed consistently calm and just smiled. Mildred’s table’s LVN was pretty patient, all things notwithstanding and I thought about the fortitude it takes to find victories in every bite when they’re not supposed to be emotionally attached to the patients. The compassion of LVNs in general and especially those who are away from their families on Christmas seems endless.

Realizing that I was not going to see Mildred break through and recognize me this visit, I didn’t feel like I’d failed to generate the awareness. Instead, I had already made peace with my joy just to see her upright in a chair when she surprised me. Her right arm reached out for the iced tea cup that was on her tray and she grasped it expertly and slowly drew it to her, taking a good sip, and then replaced it on the table without spilling. I was blown away. At 102.5 years old, I wasn’t expecting a lot in muscle coordination or spatial cognition, to be frank. Then again, she’s a lady who always does the unexpected, her signature, if only to defy preconceptions, ha.

The LVN said, “You can take her down the hall to the table in front of the nurse’s station.” I looked at Mildred and said, “Would it be okay with you if I took you down the hall?” She looked at me and nodded “yes,” with just one nod. The LVN quizzed me and I said, “She’s not remembering me yet and I want to make sure she trusts me first before I take her anywhere.” He absorbed my delay and started down the hall with Lady 20Winks. I followed and gently tried to guide the challenging rolling chair down the hallway, locating her in front of the TV.

Over the next 30 minutes, together we watched the Hallmark movie, “Coming Home for Christmas,” (2017), where brothers portrayed by Neal Bledsoe and Andrew Francis (I know, Who? It’s okay they’re Hallmarkers) fall in love with Danica McKellar over her two-week stint as a house manager, because that’s the storyboard (see photo). I’m not mocking; I’m admitting the fact that I’d already “heard” this one more than once. Scoff if you wish, but it helps to keep blood pressure low to have the Hallmark Channel on in the background vs. the news channels, trust me. During the commercials, I’d placed the angel card on the table, to her right, not too close.

Out of what she thought was my gaze, she extended her hand and brought the card closer to her but not too close. Expressing interest was a big win for me. Actually, her still being here to visit with in person was the biggest gift of all. As much as I try not to think of “the last,” at this point it became clear that she was safe, warm, and comfortable, except when another LVN attempted to take her blood pressure. She wasn’t having any of it and the LVN had to come back. Gently, sweetly and determined, the LVN was victorious, but Mildred had to give up her “other arm” to get a good reading. Her vitals were vital alright.

At the movie’s end, I decided that Mildred still didn’t know me, so I prepared to leave. As I put on my scarf and jacket, her face grew displeased, and I just kept smiling. I said, “Merry Christmas, Mildred” and she didn’t respond. That was okay. I understand. I said it again and did not attempt to hug or kiss her as I usually did. She didn’t know me and it would not have been safe for her. I did gently touch her shoulder briefly as I walked down the hallway. I paused, looked back, and she was following me with her eyes. I smiled again, waved, and blew her a kiss, saying “Merry Christmas” as I left.

The visit was a gift she gives me each year at this time. I am the recipient of her love each time I see her, sometimes specifically, other times indirectly. For years when she lived in her apartment on 29th Street, and in the adult residential community that has changed names three times but maintains its original beauty, it had simply become a joy to call her about 8 pm on Christmas night. It was after we’d both done our things, and I’d greet her with, “Is it still Christmas where you are?” and she’d reply, “It sure is, come on over!”

That’s when we would exchange our gifts for each other and have a cup of something I’d bring in from Starbucks or McDonald's (whichever was open), and she’d show me all the things she’d received that year and the cards were legendary. When I got back home each time, I felt like it had truly been Christmas for me.

But that’s not the end of the story.

As I prepared to exit the front door of the Adult Assisted Living Center, a happy lady came in first, carrying a plastic laundry basket of folded (warm) blankets. I imagined she was going to visit a relative with her favorite blankets all cleaned. As I made my way to my car out front, I saw a woman with white hair, walking strongly enough while using a walker, and she was making regular forward progress down the sloped driveway. I sensed immediately that this wasn’t a 'good thing.'

Just the fact that it was now a few minutes after 7 p.m. and dark outside, and the lady was going off into the cold (53°F) with a mid-length coat and no headwear bothered me. My first thought, sadly, was “She’s a runner!” There’s no one that I’m aware of in this facility who is under medical watch in terms of their worrying the patient might “up and leave,” as we say here in the south. I called out, gently, “Merry Christmas,” but she didn’t hear me.

Now, ask yourself what your thoughts would have been had you seen this woman on a walker, in the dark, on Christmas evening in bitter cold, oh yes, in a highly trafficked hospital section of Bryan with lots of dark places where miscreants can wreak havoc. The first thing I did was use my phone to look up the number of the main line inside the building. After 10 rings, I told the operator that I feared seeing “a runner” from their facility. She said I had the “Other side” of the facility and needed to call so-and-so phone number. I dialed. Let it ring 25 times, and it went into fail mode with the recording, “This wireless caller isn’t available.” Dad gum it.

I googled another number and called it. Woman answered and I explained I was concerned about the welfare of someone who might be one of their patients. She said, “You’ve reached the hospital, you need to call over there.” I explained that I’d already made two unanswered phone calls and she gave me two more numbers to try, both one digit apart from the other. No answer on either. Arrgh.

Watching to see whether the lady was going to try and cross 29th Street, my heart was in my mouth and I said out loud, “Lord, please don’t let her try to cross the street, please don’t let her cross the street.” The way the diminished traffic was scooting down the slick streets scared me. No answer at the now fourth and fifth phone numbers. I took off out of the parking lot, determined to see where she was heading so I could then reach out and get Bryan PD, because I was concerned for her safety, truly. I had punched up 911 in the phone but before I could push the button, I recalled that I should use the nonemergency number.

I saw the driveway of the nearby dialysis center and miraculously, there was no traffic coming toward me, so I gently glided into the driveway before she could reach that intersection. I didn’t proceed very far up the driveway and put the car in park, opened the door and waited a second for her. She didn’t seem scared at all and I kept smiling the whole time, the way I had with the unresponsive Mildred just moments earlier.

When she saw me, she smiled an angelic smile back my way and I said, “Good evening, Ma’am; Merry Christmas!” and she said, “To you, too.” I said, “My name is,,,,” introducing myself. “Do you live over at ***" (name of the place withheld)? And she said, “No, but I just came from there,” smiling. I asked, “Where do you live?” and she told me. I smiled and said, “I have many friends who’ve lived there, and would you please allow me to drive you the rest of the way home? It’s so cold out right now.”

And she smiled like an angel, I promise you! She said, “That would be so nice. Thank you very much.” And, so I said, “Wonderful, we’ll go now.” And she trusted me enough to get in my vehicle. I knew she had more trust in me than I could have ever hoped for. Had she continued to walk home, she’d have had to cross one of the single biggest intersections in town, and there were lights to cross at, to be sure, but they would only illuminate her visibility as a target for someone who might not have good intentions. She didn’t have a purse on her that I saw, but I’ll also suggest that unkind folks don’t always use good judgment in picking a target for harm, either.

All I could think of was that it was probably a year ago that I learned that a 95+-year-old woman was mugged right outside of our church, on a Sunday morning in broad daylight, for her purse. She was walking across the street from her parking spot near church to come in to worship service and…well, she wound up in the hospital and we were only four blocks away from the Bryan Police Station, too. Maybe now my excessive concern for her safety and well-being makes more sense. Even though I call this community “Mayberry,” times are when it is not.

I just felt like I wanted to reassure this angel that she was okay, but she actually seemed so tranquil and at peace that it was only for my sense of wanting her to know that no harm would come her way. I told her my name (again) and asked hers. She told me and immediately it sounded familiar. I said, “I was a little worried when I saw you walking home in the dark and it was so cold.” She said, “Well, ordinarily it wouldn’t be this late when I came home but I have a friend over there and I just HAD to get her Christmas present to her. I’d thought about it earlier today but decided it was Christmas, after all, and she had to have her gift. It's Christmas!”

She told me her friend’s name and said how she was just temporarily in the PT/rehab area of the residence but that she lived back in her community. As I noodled my way around the dialysis parking lot I thought there might be a back way out. There wasn’t. I said, “Well, I don’t know this parking lot!” cheerfully, and just as cheerfully she said, “Oh that’s okay, we’ll go back the way we came.”

I said, “Your name sounds so familiar to me,” and she explained she was retired A&M faculty. I then asked the department and all at once it hit me…she was one of the earliest female full professors at A&M in a technical area. Turns out, further, that I knew one of her (late) colleagues well, and as we talked she was great friends with my major professor in chemistry and knew his entire family. She was sharp as a tack mentally and even knew the latest sad news about the loss of one of our mutual friends. She regaled me with a cute description of the great sense of humor “the boss” had.

The return trip home took less than four minutes in the car, but even with direct path and lights, walking would have consumed probably fifteen or twenty more minutes in the elements. When we pulled up in front, I opened her door and then got the walker back out. She said, “If you’re ever around on the 4th Thursday of the month, please let me treat you to dinner here. It’s 'Friends and Family night' here and sometimes they even have entertainment. Sometimes it's good; other times it's not."

I was very familiar with the night and the entertainment aspect because I’d been to those several times with Mildred over the years and an adoptive grandmother before Mildred had ever moved in. I thanked her but didn’t give her a card with my name on it, as I didn’t plan to follow up and accept her offer, just wanted to get her safely home.

As I opened the door to the front of the residential center, I nodded at the receptionist by the door before taking leave. I was so grateful that she was home safely, that she would be warm, and I had a chance driving home to reflect on the gift of love that this woman had shown to her friend in the rehab/PT hospital. She asked for no help from anyone. She didn’t seem to be the type of person who had a dependent bone in her body. She just wanted to make sure her dear friend was remembered on Christmas. She was a living angel in a human body.

My heart was full and at peace because I knew she was safe and that was all I could ask for. I feared first that she was a runaway and I feared next that she’d be hit in traffic and I feared further of someone knocking her on the head. So, there she forged forward without fear and I was wallowing in fear for her. Which one of us was the wiser? Clearly, she was.

Today, thanks to a few other search tools to which I have access, I saw it. She’s 88 years old, and her only concern in the world was to make sure her friend didn’t miss Christmas. In actual fact, she was the angel who made certain I didn’t miss Christmas either. I am forever grateful for that random happenstance. It was, truly, a very Merry Christmas.

The Long, Long Corridor to Delivering a Message of Love

Yesterday, June 5, 2017, marked the 102nd anniversary of the day my “buddy” Mildred Kennedy was born. I’m sure there were fireworks the day she entered the world, even if it wasn’t a national holiday. If there weren’t, there should have been.

Having been out of town on business on her actual birthday, I wanted to visit Mildred today, since it had been Valentine’s Day since I’d last visited. Each time for the past several years when I’ve visited her, Mildred has been sitting upright in her wheelchair, serenely, whether watching the endless loop of CNN News on the TV screen or in the community dining room of her senior residence here in Bryan.

Mildred had “introduced” me to a new friend many years ago. As she is a private person, and would likely not speak to me if she saw her name in my blog, let’s just call her Redbird because that was the thing that Mildred knew we had in common.

All my life, beautiful songs of the cardinals floating through the air seemed to underscore my life’s journey. Whenever I look around during special times, I see the redbirds so fancied by many for the same reason. There’s legend or myth that says that the presence of a cardinal is akin to an angelic presence of a loved one around you, a sign of sorts that someone in Heaven is thinking of you.

About 10 years ago, Mildred told me she had a friend who wrote beautiful poems—loved, loved, loved—cardinals, and was a true friend of faith to her in a Women’s Bible Study group that Mildred attended across town at another church. Understand that Mildred didn’t drive after a certain age, but she never failed to have 10 or more people fighting over giving a ride to her, so there wasn’t any place she could not find her way to reach. Faithfully she attended the Bible Study, and it was there she made dear friends with “Redbird.”

However, lest you think it was devoted friendship at first sight—forget about that. Mildred was, and could be, the inspiration of terror and fear, if you thought anyone knew the Bible better than she did. Mildred knew the Bible better than some ministers, because she studied it a bazillion years, and the ministers took her corrections in good humor (most of the time). So, too, did her Bible Study partners.

When I was in Bible studies with Mildred in our home church, I wasn’t intimated by her. I already knew I had minuscule knowledge compared to hers, so it was natural to defer to her as the go-to resource. But now the Baptists knew it, too, ha! It just took a while for people not to be afraid of being corrected by her. Once they got used to her shaking her index finger to make a point now and then, all was well.

One year, Mildred gifted me with a copy of a Christmas poem that Redbird had written, and it was so beautiful it moved me to tears. I thought, “Gosh, what a great writer and poet!” Mildred said, “One of these days I’ll introduce you to her.” That happened about two years later when our church had a “Candlelight to Bethlehem” function near Christmastime. Mildred hosted a table and invited “Redbird,” me, and five more friends. The two of us were not sitting directly next to each other so it was not then that we began talking. It was just the first introduction.

In fact, it would be another 10 years before another conversation. When Mildred’s health had reached the point that she was formally admitted to Hospice care, I called Redbird to let her know what I knew early, as the Methodists were not as prompt as the Baptists when it comes to sharing information as a caring community and reaching out so all can know, love, and pray. Twenty years ago, I’d have put our prayer chain calling group up against any church’s but almost all those former members of the prayer chain (save for Mildred and another best friend) have gone on to their Heavenly reward. So, I called to make sure she wasn't last to know.

In these past seven months that Mildred has lived in the state of Hospice care at her nursing home, her transition has been a graceful and gentle decline. In the past year, because I saw her every week of my life for so many years, I found it harder to get over there to visit her at her nursing facility. With a great internal argument about how hard it would be on me to see her “like that” it was easy to find four months flying by. Seems the fear of saying goodbye, even if she was over 100 and the logic that tells us her time would soon be ending, remained strong, I really had to talk myself into it hard, harder, hardest.

Of course, after I arrived, with lots of cupcakes or flowers for the staff and fellow residents in the dining room area, I just beamed to see her doing better than I’d ever envisioned—Christmas 2016 and Valentine’s 2017. But, I skipped St. Patrick’s Day and Easter this year, telling myself that I had too many things to do. I actually did have too many things to “say grace over,” but in my heart of hearts, I knew I was nothing but a big chicken and simply couldn’t face making time to see her because it could be “the last time.”

Time passed…until yesterday. On Mildred’s actual birthday, in an early morning stroll up a steep hill I was unfamiliar with, I found myself taking smaller steps and not going that fast as I made continued deliberate progress. My walking partner could have left me in her dust, but she kept pace with me and stopped when I stopped, all along the path, without calling attention to that fact. I looked up and said, “Sorry to be so pokey.” She said, “No, you go at your own pace. I’ll wait for you.” I smiled, rested, and got back on the path.

Last week, I’d checked in with Redbird a few days ago and we’d made plans for lunch today. It almost didn’t happen because of crazy schedules, but I had really hoped we’d keep the time as planned. As our lunch concluded today, I said I was heading over to see Mildred, asking if she’d like to come with me. She looked up and immediately, without realizing it, said, “Yes, I would, but I don’t know exactly where it is, and I’m dealing with a knee injury and not able to walk long distances without a cane right now.”

I said, “I know where she is, why don’t we go together?” Certain that she was facing the same level of mixed emotions at what visiting Mildred could be—for the last time—I said, “It will help me if we go together this time.” I meant it, plus I had really wanted to bring Mildred a special present—“Redbird.” It’s one of those instincts I had, can’t explain it, but I knew full well that the labyrinthine layout of the nursing/rehab/caregiving multiplex makes it a true barrier to want to go visit anyone there if it’s just you alone.

Delighted at her acceptance, we made our way over there and after one false start, located Mildred in the room she shared. She was fast asleep. Redbird said, “Don’t wake her up, let her sleep” and I said, “Nope, just give her a second, she’ll sense we’re here and as we speak a little, she’ll hear our voices.”

Bravely, Redbird said, “Mildred, it’s ‘Redbird,’ your Bible study friend,” and that was all it took. Mildred’s eyes opened, she turned her head left (and I was on the other side) and smiled when she saw a friend smiling back at her. She couldn’t speak in words, but her eyes spoke volumes. Redbird continued, “I’m here with Dawn, another of your friends; we’re here to tell you Happy Birthday!”

As Mildred continued looking left, I got up and said, “I’ll come over so you only have one place to look.” Gently, Redbird reached over and touched Mildred’s shoulder gently. She gently shared with Mildred many of the fun, wonderful memories of Bible Study together and reminded her of all of the verses that Mildred had given her through the years. “I’ve marked my Bible “MK” with each of the verses you’ve given me.” I didn’t add it but I remembered the wonderful volumes of faith that she’s gifted me with through the years.

We searched her walls to see what was on display, looking specifically for pictures of angels that Mildred loved and collected. There weren’t many, perhaps a likely indication of her inability to recognize and appreciate their significance, although there are at least two there on her corkboard frame. Redbird added, “I remember how much you love your angels.”

On the table nearest the end of the bed was a beautiful bouquet of flowers with red roses included. There was also an unlikely faux-jeweled crown, fit for a princess, on the table next to the vase of flowers. No doubt a souvenir of a formal celebration yesterday on her “real” birthday.

The one-way conversation continued between Redbird and Mildred. Soothing tones, sweet words, and lots of love and caring in the emotions that flew by in just a few moments. Suddenly I announced, “I brought you Redbird as your present, Mildred, so let’s sing you Happy Birthday!” Without missing a beat, we broke into song and Mildred paid careful attention, and we also found a snippet of another song to sing her. Deciding to take our show on the road, or, leave Mildred to rest, we concluded our visit. I snapped a few photos and am only sharing one, preserving Redbird’s love of privacy yet showing the look of love in Mildred’s eyes. I was delighted that I found the perfect birthday present to take Mildred, literally.

Then we said our final goodbyes, knowing that in fact and for certain that it would likely be our final goodbyes. There being no outward sign of that forecast, it was just a sense of finality that overwhelmed me as we left the room she shared (separated by curtains) with two other women).

The joke of the day was on us, however, and that was the fact that whomever designed this healthcare metroplex was either a blooper or purposeful to prevent easy escape for the residents; either way, it was a complex design of architectural mystery. You enter the building, walk a little, get on the elevator, go up one floor, then you go down the hall a little way, then ‘round the corner and…that was just to get in. However, to leave, there’s a problem if you don’t retrace your steps exactly. We didn’t. That was the problem.

No one felt worse than I did when I realized that we were in a state of “lost” that would require 15 minutes and the guidance of at least five employees helping us find our way. There are at least two-and-a-half entrances over there. But recall, my friend Redbird was nursing a recovering knee injury and walking long distances is not on her “to-do” list for recuperation.

As we walked hopefully down hallway after hallway, she’d pause and say, “I need to stop for a minute,” yet she was the best trooper. Rather than giving me “what-for” not knowing the way out, she was regretting slowing me down. I said, “There is no need to apologize, as I really understand the need to find your own pace. Believe me!”

Just 24 hours earlier, I was on the other end of my fading strength, being encouraged and uplifted by a trusted friend saying I could do it. Eventually we made it to the car, cranked up the AC to combat the 95% humidity that was classic Texas style. I really admired my new friend for persevering beyond her knee pain to share her love with Mildred.

Lessons from the day, then, were numerous. First, whenever we face a difficult task, one we fear, such as saying a potential final farewell to a dear, dear friend, we need not be alone when we do it. The presence of a trusted friend, whether brand new or longtime BFF, gives you the strength you need when you need it most.

Second, never fear saying goodbye. Instead, say “I love you” and don’t worry about how much time a person you love has left on Earth. Don’t project the “We only have X more years left on the planet.” Instead, just show love every day and the rest will take care of itself.

Third, there is no better present one friend can give to another than time. Fact. No Neiman-Marcus box or Tiffany bow carries the value outside that a loving heart of a faithful friend carries inside. It’s true that one day, Mildred won’t be among us anymore. That’s a fact, too. But, in the meantime, it’s a good thing to remember that we, on this side of the labyrinth of life, still have the freedom to navigate (successfully or otherwise) on “this” side of the small bed reined in by sliding curtain and drywall with a corkboard frame on the wall.

And yet, without a word today, Mildred was a living lesson in faith to two friends who’d come to sing her into her 102nd year. Gosh, she’s good! Then again, never underestimate the power of love.