“Those who see me in the street
run far away from me.
I am like a dead man, forgotten,
like a thing thrown away.”
--Psalm 31: 11b-12
My mother-in-law and I have taken to having our coffee on the front porch. She has been living with us since shortly after her cancer diagnosis. And these days she is fairly weak, but still likes to go outside for a bit every morning. We sit out there with our cups of coffee watching the world and listening to the voices of crooners from the 40s & 50s: Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Bobby Darin, Mel Torme… Weekday mornings the world is quiet. Not a lot to see. We throw out a few hand fulls of peanuts and watch the blue jays and the squirrels come down for breakfast; she often comments on the ants crawling along out sidewalk; occasionally a neighbor passes. We usually say hi. This is our morning routine. After the morning pills we go outside to the porch and sit and watch the world and listen to voices from the past; once in a while we talk—but not too often.
I have known this woman for about 35 years now. She has never been much of a talker. Especially about important things. But I am and so I try. And one way I am trying is by reading a psalm to her every morning. I figure it gives us something to talk about other than the weather, the ants, the one-eyed squirrel or the color of a car that drove by. So far, no objections.
Yesterday morning we read Psalm 31. When I finished reading, I noticed she had a very troubled look on her face. I asked her what she thought of it. She said: It’s kind of sad. Grasping at this as an opening, I asked her what part she thought was saddest? She told me to read it again. I did.
The part that stood out to me, comes when the psalmist cries out that he is: an object of scorn to my neighbors/ and of fear to my friends…” (31: 11a) I half expected her to say something about that. How, living with us, she didn’t see her friends anymore and perhaps she was starting to feel like people were avoiding her. And to my ear, it seemed like the psalmist got this right. I have noticed how often people tend to avoid the sick and the dying. Not out of scorn or disregard, but out of fear. They are afraid they won’t know what to do or what to say. They are afraid to be a bother. Or perhaps they are afraid of the discomfort of simply feeling helpless. When you sit with someone who is dying, there is nothing you can do—except just be there. And that can be quite intimidating—even scary. At least that is where my thoughts were going.
But, after a long silence she said, The part about being thrown away.
And that left me in silence, too. Of course. Doesn’t that kind of sum it all up?
We sat there watching the ants on the sidewalk and listening to the music. Neither one of us saying a word more.
Until finally, I had to ask her, did she ever feel “thrown away.” She sipped her coffee and looked at me with a gentle, almost sly smile and said, No. I have a son-in-law.
We laughed a little and then listened to Nat King Cole singing “Smile.”
When the coffee ran out and we were both getting hungry, we went inside for scrambled eggs and toast. After breakfast there was a call. It was some of Carol’s old neighbors (Carol is my mother-in-law). They wanted to come over for a visit. They promised not to come until after The Bold and the Beautiful. Carol has been watching B&B since it started. That and the Astros are just about the only non-negotiables she has when it comes to the TV.
Anyway, that afternoon the friends came. I don’t know how
long they stayed, because I went to take a nap. But I could hear them talking
and laughing through the closed door. It was a good sound. Nothing special. They talked about changes in
their old neighborhood. About retirement. About pets and the abundance of cats
at our house. They laughed when someone remembered the neighbor who used to
walk her dog every morning still in her pajamas… Nothing special. Just chatting.
But what a blessing it was. The fact that they made the effort was just about
everything. With their words and their laughter (and especially by their
presence) they let Carol know she wasn’t abandoned. She wasn’t discarded.
She hadn't been thrown away. Not only does she have a son-in-law, but she has a daughter who loves her deeply and without reservation. And she has friends. Friends who won't forget her. Friends who love her so much they won't leave her alone... She is truly blessed.
In fact, the visit was a blessing to us all. For an hour we all had the comfort of other voices, other lives, other stories, other things to think about… than cancer and bedside toilets and medicine schedules and what would we fix for dinner. In a very real sense, these three people were a witness to us, to all of us, that we had not been forgotten. That in a very real sense, God was with us. And that was something we all needed to remember. That we had not been forgotten or thrown away.
It doesn’t take much to make someone’s day. To bless their life. A little time, a cup of coffee, a bit of silence, a shared memory or a silly story. Nothing much… but in a very real sense—it could be everything.
