“GIVE US THIS DAY”

Dear WRC,

This past Thursday, Glenn Dykstra and I brought communion to Ruth Perrotta. It’s one of the remarkable privileges of my job—not only being welcomed into people’s homes and lives but to bring this visible sign of invisible grace into their lives as well.

Ruth was quiet during our visit. She still looks great but is 96 and starting to feel it. Dementia has been slowly setting in, too. It was clear she heard and understood us but that day she was slow to reply and offered only short answers to our questions. Our visit was a fairly one-sided conversation. Glenn and I telling Ruth about things going on at church, and remembering Ruth’s beautiful singing that blessed our congregation for decades. Ruth didn’t really respond; she didn’t really seem to have much energy.

I asked if she’d like to have communion with us. There was a pause. “Yes,” she said softly. Her voice isn’t what it once was, weakened by age and no longer able to soar to the heights of glory. I began to set out the crackers and juice before us. I got out the communion liturgies. I asked if Ruth would like one to follow along or if she’d like us to do all the reading. Again, a pause. “You,” she said softly, again. So, we began. We worked our way through the liturgy for “The Lord’s Supper in Home and Hospital.” I led. Glenn read the responses. Ruth listened quietly.

 Dementia is cruel, as anyone who has encountered it knows full well. It robs you of your memories, which is a way of saying that it robs you of your self. There are good days and bad days− days when memories flow freely and days when everything is a fog. I was thinking this was a bad day for Ruth. I didn’t know how much she was really even with us, or how much of her was still her. Through the conversation and now through the liturgy she sat quiet, still, with a slightly distant look in her eyes.

Right before we receive communion itself, the In-home liturgy invites us to pause and pray the Lord’s Prayer together. I invited Ruth and Glenn to join me. I paused for a moment. As we began to pray it was only Glenn and I: “Our Father, who art in heaven.” We continued through the prayer, perhaps more perfunctory than I would like to admit. But as we rounded the corner “on earth as it is in heaven,” and began to ask for daily bread, I heard something. I leaned in as we prayed for forgiveness and it was there again. A third voice had joined in our prayer. It was soft and quiet, but it was there. Ruth prayed right along with us as we prayed against temptation and evil, and she seemed to gain confidence as we closed together, “For thine is the Kingdom and the power and the glory forever, amen.”

 It was one of the most beautiful things I have heard in a long time. I wasn’t sure if Ruth was with us through most of that liturgy, but the old and sure words of the Lord’s Prayer, words she has prayed thousands of times, called something out of her—called her out of her. They brought her back to us. Their familiarity created space for her to lift up her heart with us in worship.

 Dementia has stolen much, but it hasn’t yet stolen the grooves these words have worn between her synapses. And even if it does one day, those very words point us on to a hope that will never crack or fade. Our hope isn’t located in ourselves. It isn’t our knowledge, it isn’t our effort, it isn’t our net worth, it isn’t our ability, it isn’t our memory or anything located in our self. Our hope is Him, our Father, who art in heaven. We have hope because His is the Kingdom. His is all power. His is all glory. We are His, and He is faithful.

 That still, small voice was a reminder that God was with us in that holy moment. That third voice, woven into ours as a reminder that God does not see what humans see, looking at outward appearances. The prayer itself a reminder that we live every day—from weakness, to strength, to weakness again—relying on the faithfulness of God for every breath, every day’s bread, every thing. We had brought the bread and the cup, but it was Ruth’s voice—like it has so many times before—that opened our eyes to something so Holy, right here under our noses. God. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

In Christ,

         Pastor Andy