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When I was at MH Vancouver, a friend asked if we could visit a woman, Christine, who had been placed in a nursing home. She was fifty years old, had been diagnosed with early onset dementia, and had no family. I became her regular visitor.
I’d been warned by her caregivers to expect very little interaction from her. But whether or not she was able to interact, I knew that God lived in Christine, and I fully expected to find him in her.
The other thing I knew was this: a line from the Madonna House Little Mandate (a short description of our spirituality), would be my guide. “Little. Be always little, simple, poor, childlike.”
Christine was sitting on her bed the first time I visited her. We looked at each other. I smiled, greeted her by name, introduced myself, and assured her that I would return.
She didn’t say anything. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Basically, that was it. That was the beginning of our connection.
On subsequent visits, Christine occasionally spoke a few words. Most of the time, I could not make sense out of what she said. Sometimes she cried, and I did my best to console her.
One day, I came up with the idea of going for an outing. “Christine,” I asked, “have you ever picked blackberries?” She nodded.
When we arrived at the bushes which were laden with large blackberries, Christine went ahead of me and began picking them in earnest. She picked like an expert, avoiding the sharp thorns.
I watched her, stunned by this behavior. Was this the same woman who had come from the nursing home in an almost comatose state?
After picking for a time, Christine and I headed for the beach where there was an ice cream stand.
Because we were walking on sand, Christine took off her shoes, but after a few steps, she said, “It’s hot. It’s hot,” and looked at me in distress. She didn’t seem to know what was causing her pain.
I rushed to her side and led her onto the grass as quickly as I could. The promised ice cream seemed to restore her equilibrium.
“What flavor would you like, Christine?”
She pointed to the tub labeled “blackberry.”
“One scoop or two?”
Up went two fingers. Christine had definite preferences and, in her own way, she was able to articulate them. Again I was amazed by the beautiful life bubbling up from this woman’s heart. It was not the first time that Christine had amazed me.
At the ice cream stand, I commented on the music that was playing. “Sounds like the Beatles.”
“It’s reggae,” Christine corrected me.
I had heard that when Christine was well, she liked to go to adoration. Would she still be open to that, I wondered.
The next time we had an opportunity, Christine and I went to the adoration chapel. We sat side by side. Christine was completely still, focused on the Blessed Sacrament.
I waited about ten minutes, assuming she would be ready to leave after that. But when I asked, she said, “I’m okay,” and resumed her prayerful posture.
Christine was living in a prison of pain and isolation. It did not seem to me that her dignity as a child of God was being acknowledged. But the Lord was suffering with Christine in her loneliness. He was there in her heart waiting to be found by others.
