Not so long ago I was part of a church that regularly went and visited a local nursing home, and on occasion ran a church service in one of the lounge rooms. This was for the residents who were unable to get out and go to church on their own, or even accompanied. These occasional services consisted of a number of hymns, a short talk, some prayer, and afternoon tea. It was quite lovely, and there were a number of residents who obviously looked forward to it all month (we could only go every four weeks or so).
The very first time I went, I gave an abridged version of the sermon I preached at church. In many ways it was a greatly encouraging experience, spending time with saints who had been Christians for two or three times my lifespan. When we were sitting around and chatting before the service started, I overheard one of the ladies—who, to be honest, looked a little sour—complain to no-one in particular. She exclaimed to the room, “I wish she would shut up! She does it all the time! It’s constant! It’s driving me mad!”
It was only then that I overheard another of the ladies humming, slightly out of tune. She was in a bed-chair, with almost no ability to move herself. She could turn her head to hear what was going on, but that was the extent of her voluntary movements. She couldn’t speak, let alone sing. All she could do was make noises in her throat—and at this point in time, she was humming.
Nursing homes hold a special kind of dread for confident, able-bodied, self-assured (arrogant?) twenty-somethings. I want to do something, but I’m left unable to act. How can I love those who are rendered so incapable, so debilitated? How would I bear up if I were in her place? Would I continue to trust God and his goodness? What would I do if I were able to do nothing but gurgle?
This woman was aged, crippled, unable to speak or move unaided, and hummed constantly. What was she humming?
‘Amazing Grace’.
