When Steve and I finished our walk down the long hall and entered Smiley’s room, we saw that he was out of bed and sitting up in a wheelchair. Since he spends much of his time sleeping, we were thankful we had caught him at a more responsive time.
After we had greeted his wife, Juanita, Steve knelt beside Smiley and said, “Smiley, it’s so good to see you. I know how much you’ve always loved to sing; would you like to sing Amazing Grace with us?”
Smiley’s head slowly turned and his eyes fastened on Steve’s face. Then he nodded his head and whispered, “Amazing Grace.”
With a quiet glance between us, Juanita, Steve and I joined our voices to sing that most beloved of hymns. And as we did, Smiley’s face brightened. He sat up a little straighter and every so often, his mouth shaped a few of those timeless words, murmuring them along with us.
We followed that song with the Lord’s Prayer and once again we saw flashes of animation cross Smiley’s face. He remembered a few of the words and tried to say them with us; when he couldn’t remember them, though, he just sat quietly and listened. His eyes were fixed on our faces while his spirit and memory drank in the ancient words that have comforted countless people throughout the centuries.
During the whole time we were there, Juanita stayed busy, rearranging a blanket over Smiley’s knees, touching his skin to see if it was hot or clammy, rubbing his hand, and listening intently to the few words he managed to communicate despite the haze that Alzheimer’s had spread across his mind.
At one point Juanita leaned in close and said, “Smiley, do you know who I am?”
He looked at her for a long moment and then said simply, “Please tell me your name.”
She gently said to him, her husband of many decades, “Juanita. My name is Juanita.” And I saw tears come to her eyes.
It seemed to me at that moment as though no one else existed—not in the room, not in the building, not in the world. No one except for Smiley and Juanita. They sat across from each other, knees touching, eyes locked onto each other, memories and love and exhaustion and fear and faith all vying for space on their faces.
As I took an involuntary step backward away from that holy, intimate scene, the thought crossed my mind that if I were going to capture that picture with a camera, I would do it in black and white.
Simple. Stark. Life and marriage stripped to their essence. Black and white.
It would be a snapshot of life. A snapshot of peace. A snapshot of a man approaching the end of his journey, tended to by his wife, sung to by his pastor, cared for by His Creator.
I knew that in that moment I was getting to witness the truest nuance of the word marriage. I knew that I was getting to witness the deepest meaning of the words, “In sickness and in health.” I knew that I was getting to see the lived-out truth behind the words, “‘Till death do us part.”
I was grateful for the privilege of standing with my husband in a place where old hymns and old vows kept afloat two people who have lived their promises to each other with honor and faithfulness and stubborn, stubborn love.
When we finally left that afternoon, Steve and I were both subdued, our eyes and souls full of what we had experienced—not just in Smiley’s room but also up and down the halls as we saw men and women waiting for their last breath, their last morning, their last day.
They were waiting for the day when their faith would become sight. They were waiting for the day when Amazing Grace would become more than a song and would instead become the first step out of the last moment of their lives—the first step into the brand newness of forever.
But the moment I remember the best from that afternoon was that after we had sung our songs and after we had whispered our prayers, Smiley sat silently in his wheelchair, gazing out toward eternity. And then he said very simply, “I want to go see Jesus.”
I know it won’t be very long until that day comes.
And when it does, we will gather to remember his life. We will gather to celebrate the love that he and Juanita shared. And we will gather to remember all of his moments–the joyful moments that he lived in color and the the painful, tender, sacred moments that he lived in black and white.
Postscript: Smiley was able to return to his home shortly after I wrote this piece and he died there a few days later–surrounded by the love of his family.
Love this so much. I’m gonna go read it again.
P.S. My Dad is having major surgery in Georgia, the day before Kirby’s wedding ..in Illinois. Surgery -Friday. Wedding –Saturday. I’d love your prayers for safe travels, a happy wedding, and blessings on my parents as they still miss their son and are going through this new diagnosis on my Dad. I hope it’s okay that I put this all on here, Becky. Thanks and I love you, Internet friend.
Kim,
Wow–that’s a lot going on in your family at one time with heaping helpings of joys and sorrows and all the stuff in between. ( And yes, of course, it’s alright to put all that on here. You’re part of the Smithellaneous family!) 🙂
Prayers for you and your sweet family today.
Prayers for you and your family, Kim. This is a place I turn to for support from Becky and all the other loving people who come here. I don’t think Becky or any one who visits this site would object to your request and would most definitely join in prayers for you. After all, we set up a “waiting room” many years ago to join in prayer for Becky and her family as they traveled some rough roads. I imagine that “waiting room” is still available for whomever visits here and requires some company in prayer.
Thank you so much, Becky and Mary. I can feel the love. <3
Mary,
You are such an encouraging lady; thanks for those words of affirmation for Kim and anyone else who needs an extra Smithellaneous hug today!
Hi Becky,
I lost my dad nearly five years ago. In fact, it will be five years in one week. Your post was very timely. Thank you!
Kristi,
So glad to know the post was especially meaningful (and timely) for you this week. That means so much to me to know that what I write matters.
Hugs to you on this anniversary week of your dad’s death.
Beautiful, simply beautiful. Thank you Becky!
Holly,
Thanks so much; it was an honor to write that post and shine a spotlight on that sweet couple.
What a wonderful, touching tribute to your friend, Smiley, may he rest in peace. I sure hope you shared it with his wife.
Gayle,
Yes, I let her read the rough draft before I finalized it and of course asked for permission to post it. She was very moved.
Becky,
Your words paint a picture! It took me back to the last week of my husband’s life, dying from cancer at age 54. We had been married 22 years; at that time our daughter was 16. I look back on that week and remember the gifts (daddy’s last hug to his daughter, the last time we said I Love You) and the visits to tell him goodbye and the memories of singing, laughing and crying. I know we were surrounded by so much love, just like Smiley!
Lynne,
Your words paint a picture as well–a picture of grief and love and the comfort of being part of a family at a difficult time. Since Sarah and Steve are both close to the ages of your daughter and your husband (when he passed away), your story carried even more of an emotional impact. So glad you have the memories of sweet love shared to sustain you. Grace to you.
These kind of posts are what you do best, Becky. As I go into work tonight to oversee the care of 41 patients with Alzheimer’s Disease, I will keep your words close. Often with the stress of caring for them, i.e. the lack of enough staffing, the dementia and their challenging behaviors, it is easy to lose sight of the spiritual journey each one of them is on. Thank you.
Lesley, thank you for your work with Alzheimer’s patients. My mother is now in need of such care, and I know what a challenge it is.
Liz,
I know it is so very difficult to see your mom at this stage of her life–I know your love and care are anchors to her.
Lesley,
I join with Liz in saying thank you for the work you do. During our visit with Smiley and Juanita, she mentioned one special nurse and what a difference she made to them both during those difficult days. You are truly a ministering angel.
I love how you make words work. Great post.
love deb
Deb, I taught her everything she knows! Har!
Steve,
Deb and I know the truth!
Yes we do–har-har! 🙂 Actually, I know you receive inspiration and instruction from each other as you both are incredibly talented writers. You two are amazing!
Don’t get your knickers in knot! I was just funning’!
Deb,
Since I work very hard at making words work, thank you for noticing! Love you!
beautiful….
“and grace led Smiley home to a life of joy and peace”….
Amen and amen!
Mrs. Pam,
So thankful for the places grace leads us.
Mary,
So glad the post was meaningful to you–any post that brings you sweet memories of your parents is a good post!
Your story of Smiley touched my heart and made me shed some needed tears as it brought back memories of my mom and dad. Thank you.