Love God, Love People: In the midst of winkles

Orphans. The mere word conjures depressing images and sorrowful thoughts of hungry tummies, starving hearts, and empty hands.

Babies.

Toddlers.

Children.

But, are they the only orphans?

I think not. Let me share a story, intertwined with poetry, about Christmas Day 2010...

My fellas and I attended the church of some friends and then joined their congregation for a shared Christmas day lunch. Our original plan was for my family, the three of us, to join forces with our invitees and visit some local orphans, but an emergency at my husband’s work beckoned. So, the kiddo and I left him to tend ringing phones while we tagged along with our friends. Our motley crew of three adults and five children tromped through the doors of the small town’s only old-folk’s home…

and into the midst of wrinkled orphans.

As par for the course in rural farming communities, it’s a no-nonsense facility that houses folks who once turned dirt, coaxed wheat, taught Sunday school, and soldiered through wars. The facility was attached to the backside of the hospital — so the more acute cases had easy access to medical care.

Our friends already knew most of the folks (by way of monthly visitations filled with singing, sharing, and making merry with the old-timers) and prior to our arrival, my dear, gentle friend had bought simple gifts to help meet the physical needs of the unattended residents, those with no scheduled outings and/or no expected visitors for Christ’s birthday. So the day before, while they tended to specific gifts, my son and I went  a more geriatric generic route and stuffed plastic bags with oranges, boxed raisins, fruit pies, granola bars, chocolate kisses, and home-made crayon notes.

Both families lugged boxes full of gifts and goodies inside. Even though it was the first time through the doors for me and my kiddo, he’s always had a giant heart for the elderly. In fact, at that time, his best friend at church was a ninety-year old woman.

Elderly

orphans exhale

shallow – minimum

remnants, hearts

huddled

tight,

sleepless nights, feet

cold. 

Tired, oft forgotten by

grown kids.

No one tucks

covers,

slips socks

over toes,

piles pillows,

or spreads butter

and honey on diagonal

cut 

toast.

I was altogether worried (about my reaction, about the smells, about the sadness).

I had a heart splayed open, anxious (to love someone in my community).

I was excited to celebrate a most special birthday (I reckoned this to be a fine, non-wrapped gift suitable for the King of kings).

Loose minds

instead of orderly

thoughts;

teeth soak in cups –

counters sticky

with yesterday’s

memories.

Hands tremble

fear and television shows

blare,

inside these sterile

spaces.

We knocked on doors, sang carols, and gave gifts… a new pair of soft slippers; a bottle of honeysuckle lotion; a fuzzy, cuddle-worthy blanket; and thirteen plastic bags, zipped and filled with snacks. You can bet your bloomers that the old-timers traded us smiles for goods. But ya wanna know something? I reckon it was the stuff of us that actually unearthed smiles and brought the love.

Heavy doors 

swung

open Christmas

Day; we

knocked hips and boxes and

elbows against hallway walls;

but stepped gentle,

applied

gauzy bandages to

broken

hearts that lay,

on metal-framed beds

high above

disinfectant-scrubbed floors.

There was one fella in particular that I wanted to bring home — he walked and talked and looked like my long-passed grandpa. Where the heck were his children and grandchildren anyway? If they wandered in, dare I ask them to hand over his adoption papers? We discovered one another as  he walked the halls with his mistress of moments gone by. He was bright and shiny, and although far from new, I could tell right off the bat that he was firing on all cylinders. His cowboy boots clicked slick hallways, his Wranglers hung too loose, and a Veteran of Foreign Wars beret topped his soft hair. He smiled gentle kindness and I bit my lip to keep hot tears inside. We just stopped and stared at one another. Finally I reached for him.

That old man

and I,

we hugged

hard and long

like we’d loved

one another for

years upon

years, instead

of a few hard-ticked

heartbeats. 

I turned

to leave, he held

my heart stings

tight  – sneaky man replaced 

the frayed

aching pain with

knit together

grace & love

& mercy chords.

I could hear

invisible

angels sing

happy birthday 

Jesus.

Before we left each resident’s side, my friend’s husband led everyone in prayer. Smiles and hugs and tears soaked me heavy over and over and over again.

Oh, you betcha, most definitions of “orphan” include the verbiage no parents, fatherless, motherless, and even adopted. But, if’n youI look at the online dictionaries, you’ll find a couple places that describe an “orphan” as one lacking supervision; a person lacking care.

Psst, you there. Come closer. I have something to tell you… three years ago I discovered that orphans sometimes are found beneath thin skin and wrinkles… with hungry tummies, starving hearts, and empty hands.

Even on Christ’s birthday.

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.

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