A Grandson's Change of Heart

            Grandson Gabe and I walked down the brightly lit hallway. A nurse smiled at us from behind her computer screen as she tapped on the keyboard. A dietitian carrying a food tray disappeared through a doorway. An elderly man with white hair haphazardly sticking out from his head worked his wheel chair with his slippered-feet. He grinned as we passed, revealing multiple missing teeth. A mix of disinfectant, urine, and the day’s lunch menu hung thick in the air.

            “I don’t think I could work in a place like this,” Gabe said, squeezing my hand.

            I nodded. “It does take a special person to invest time and energy in these dear ones who are so often forgotten, even mistreated at times.”

            Gabe grew quiet as we approached the door we were looking for. Room 103: Mable Bishop. “This is it!” I purposely brightened my voice to encourage Gabe. On occasion, he and our other grandchildren sang and quoted Scriptures when we visited various nursing homes, so he was acquainted with the protocol. However, since he and his family had recently returned to the States after serving in Thailand, he’d not been with me to the nursing home since he was six.

            I gingerly pushed on the heavy door and peered inside. Mable lay in her bed staring out the window. Her roommate, Edith, snoozed in her bed. Mable and I enjoyed a rich history as prayer partners. While she didn’t remember my name, only that we used to go to church together, she smiled whenever she saw me. Widowed at age 51, Mable taught me by word and example, and definitely through her prayers, that the Lord was her number one Husband, and as such, would provide and protect her. How I’d valued her simple, honest prayers during those days. Now in her advanced years, she no longer prayed with me verbally, but she testified to praying silently throughout the day as she gazed out her window.

            Her head turned as Gabe and I moved to the side of her bed. Her face lit up. “Hi, Mable!” I gently squeezed her shoulder as Gabe took his place at the end of the bed. Perhaps his advanced age of eight was making him more cautious. “How are you today?” I said. She smiled, nodded. “This is my grandson, Gabe.” Plates clattered in the hallway. “You remember my youngest daughter, Stephanie. This is her son.” She beamed as if remembering, but I knew she didn’t.

            I pressed on, uncertain how long Gabe would tolerate this visit. “Would you like to sing today, Mable?” I winked at Gabe. He was all about music. I leaned over, gazed into Mable’s eyes. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . . ”

            Riveted on my face, she mouthed the words with me, an occasional sound slipping from her lips in the form of a groan. She loved it! I exchanged a glance with Gabe. He had moved a bit closer to us and was beginning to sing, too.

            By now Edith was awake, and while she couldn’t utter a note, she seemed fixated on our music. After a verse or two of “Nothing But the Blood” and “The Old Rugged Cross,” it was time to leave.

            I gave Mable a hug. “Please, come back and see me,” she said as I lingered in the embrace. “Any time.” She grinned at Gabe.  

            Gabe and I waved to Mable and Edith as we left the room. As we walked back down the hallway, Gabe was quiet. At last, he said, “Ya know, Grandma, I think I could work in a place like this.”