Online Church - Seniors

Many people who accept Christ in their golden years find it hard to believe God for peace, healing, restoration, or guidance.

If you are facing an overwhelming situation or a long recovery, take the small steps with God's help.

We don't go there as often as we used to. When we were young, my brothers and I hurried through Saturday morning chores knowing that when our work was done, more often than not, we'd get to go to Taco House.

Tacos, burritos, chalupas, guacamole . . . but "voted family favorite" were the cheese enchiladas. My official transition from childhood to independent womanhood came the day I chose to eat my first bowl of green chili.

When I married and moved to Texas I craved that green chili so much that my folks brought me some on dry ice when they came for a visit. On an extended visit from our home in Norfolk, Virginia, I gave up nursing Diana so I could have green chili without upsetting her tummy. Yup, I took to Green Chili like a duck to water.

Andy lost a pacifier once between the window and a stationary booth at Taco House, and howled in protest when we had to leave it behind. Every one of my children graced a high chair there, then a booster, before being big enough to sit unassisted in a booth. Now I'm working on that process with the grandkids.

Three of my four children honed their work skills waiting tables and washing dishes at Taco House. Their familiarity with the menu and the fact that we were practically family virtually assured them of a position. Ah, yes. I have a mental portfolio chock full of memories from that little restaurant. I go there now as much for the memories as for the food.

One of my favorite memories took place a couple of winters ago, just before Christmas. The temperatures outside were brisk, typical of a Colorado winter. Taco House was decked out in its holiday best - twinkling lights, seasonal greetings on the windows, and the same o'le massive holly wreath on the wall that has hung there since time immemorial.

The restaurant was packed that day. So were our schedules, which explains why Andy and Ben came in one vehicle and I in another. We maneuvered our way through the crowd to an orange booth in the rear and slipped into seats that had long ago stopped cushioning derrieres.

The guys ordered cheese enchiladas without onions and the parts to a number four dinner. I ordered - what else - green chili. While we waited for our meal we caught up on one another's day and sipped iced cold Coca-Cola. Once our food arrived, we devoured it between ongoing chit-chat over what-not. Finally full Andy and Ben readied to go.

"You sure you'll be all right, Mom, if we go ahead and leave?"

"Oh, yea. I'll just pay the bill and make a stop by the bathroom. You go on ahead. See you later!"

I paid the bill then coat and purse in hand meandered through the tables to the ladies room. Brrrr it was cold in there. They don't heat that little cubby hole. The only light comes from a bare bulb overhead, and a very tiny window near the single commode. I locked the door and took care to finish my business in record time.

I washed and dried my hands, gathered my purse and coat, and turned to leave. I pulled on the knob and the door held fast. I checked to be sure it was unlocked. It was. Laying my belongings on the sink, I used both hands and pulled a little harder - nothing. Remembering the restaurant burgeoning with patrons, I gently tapped on the door, "Hello??? Anybody there??" Nothing.

I knocked a little louder. "Helllllooooo????? Can you hear me?" Nothing.

Shivering as much from cold as escalating panic, I wracked my brain for face-saving measures. I would not make a scene. I WOULD NOT.

Just before launching into full blown alarm, I remembered my cell phone. Be still my heart, help is on the way.

I dialed Rob all the while begging, "Please pick up the phone, please pick up the phone."

Soon the ringing was interrupted by his deep, bass voice, "Hello. This is Rob. How may I help you?"

"Hi, honey. It's me! I'm Fine. Just fine."

"Well. I do have one little problem . . . I'm stuck in the bathroom at Taco House."

He chuckled and I relaxed. Being a typical male he launched into fix-it mode.

"I tired that, Rob. They can't hear me over the noise. . . NO, I'm NOT gonna do that, everybody will hear me. Tried that too. It won't budge. Look, would you mind just calling and asking them to let me out?"

I pushed the off button on the phone, slipped it back into my purse and pressed my ear against the icy door. I waited. He'd have to look up the phone number so this might take awhile. Man, it's getting cold in here. Finally, through the din of voices I heard the phone, ring-ring-ring-ring.

"Hello, Taco House." Pause. "You're kidding!" I distinctly heard laughing.

In a minute, Brian the cook knocked on the door. Being a typical male he launched into fix-it mode. "Pull on it again." I did. Nothing. "Try turning the knob while you pull on it." I did. The doorknob came off in my hand. By now everyone in the place knows someone's stuck in the bathroom. Pause. "Okay, look there's a window in there, open it up and I'll bring you a screwdriver."

Soon there was a rat-a-tat-tat at the window. I turned the crank, slowly, slowly opening the stubborn old window until my rescuer and I were face-to-face. "Oh, it's you!" he said, "I should just leave you in there." Funny. Very funny.

He pressed the screwdriver into my hand, then instructed me to take the screws out of what was left of the mechanism on the door. I unscrewed them one by one until there was nothing left in the door but a small, round opening. Anchoring my finger firmly in the hole I gave it a tug and the door swung open wide.

Every waitress in the place was outside the door waiting for my timely release. So much for anonymity. Brian was laughing. They were laughing. I gathered my purse, coat and remaining dignity, said my thank-yous and walked red-faced through the horde of curious patrons and out the door.

Thanks to Taco House I've come full circle from a dependent child, to an independent woman, to a dependent woman. I don't even remember the last time I got to go to Taco House by myself.

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Jenny at Pinehurst

I look up just as the gurney carrying Hank's* covered body is quietly pushed past my open office door. A few steps behind, Jenny* keeps pace her head bowed low beneath her heavy load of grief. She's chosen to be his friend in his final weeks at Sunrise Senior Living at Pinehurst. I do not doubt for a moment that she did so knowing full well the cost involved.

From the day I first met him, Hank had my heart. A tall, gracious man, he fairly filled a room with his presence. He was a man of few words and eyes that twinkled when he smiled. Physically he had his good days, and he had his bad days hence his need for Assisted Living. On the days when he felt good, he carried a daily activity sheet in hand and participated in every event that struck his fancy.

He hadn't been at Pinehurst long when he and sweet Jenny formed a friendship. Where you saw one, the other was close by. She took his good-natured teasing in stride; he let her dote over him with motherly concern. Neither said a great deal, seemingly content just to be together.

As their friendship grew, so did the glow on her beautiful face. She fairly radiated like a teenager in love for the very first time. I found them one day sitting contentedly in the theater side-by-side and suspected they'd turned a corner of sorts, easing gingerly beyond casual friendship. The day I saw her hand snuggled safely in his, I knew Hank had won her heart.

I love Jenny. She's funny, serious, lovely, simple, easy going, deep. She's short in stature with just enough roundness to make her soft and cushy. More often then not she makes an appearance in the morning with her sweater on upside down, her blouse backwards, or her jacket inside out. She tolerates my doting as I discretely right her garment more for my comfort then hers. She marches to her own rhythm and doesn't care if her outfit is "just right" or not! Sometimes while I'm busy with my doting, she laughs and tells me about the day she and her caregiver tried to discreetly fix her blouse within the privacy of the elevator. They weren't quick enough, and, much to her chagrin and the surprise of waiting residents, the door opened before it was back in place.

Jenny often regales me with the stories of her life. She and her husband, Raymond, experienced a full life and deep love. Being a wife, mother and grandmother was her high calling and she embraced it with passion and delight. Her heart was happiest when it beat for others. I loved hearing her tell about a phone call from her tiny great-granddaughter asking her to please come over as she was in sore need of being rocked by Grandma.

Jenny came to Pinehurst when her grief was fresh and her heart raw. When Raymond died her family, wanting her nearby, moved her from the mountain town where she and Ray had lived to the city. She honored me with her pain one evening as we sat across from one another and she told me of a legendary love that ended long before she was ready with the passing of her darling husband. She cried and I handed her tissues until her tears were spent. Its been said, "You share your joys with acquaintances, your sorrows with a friend." We were officially friends.

Hank became ill and it was soon apparent that he was going to die. Jenny proved the depth of her love and height of her character during those difficult days. Never one to intrude, she would wait until his family left for the day, then she would push her walker to his room on the back hallway, gently knock on the door, and quietly sit by his side. I suspected, and she one day confirmed, that she kept vigil at his bedside so he wouldn't be alone.

She had lots of time to think as she sat there. I'm sure there were moments when she thought of Raymond. Knowing full well that Hank would die, I sometimes wondered why she chose to willing walk through grief again. She could have walked away. She could have guarded her heart. She could have refused to enter his pain. But she did not, could not, would not. She believed their friendship to be her responsibility to the very end.

Jenny cared for Hank, and when you care for someone you're there whether it's comfortable of not. She offered him a sip of water when he was thirsty, encouraged him to eat, "Just a little. There you go. Now one more bite, okay?" They talked about life and I’m sure they talked about death. She listened to his words and she heard his heart. However long the journey she determined he would not make it alone. Sometimes, when words were spent, she simply sat at his side, his hand snuggled safely in hers. Other then to check on their needs from time to time, Hank's caregiver left them alone.

So, it is really no surprise to see Jenny following the gurney to the van that will take Hank's body to the mortuary. I hesitate for a moment wondering if she might prefer to be alone, then slip from behind my desk - we are friends and she needs me. The Hospice nurse and Hank's faithful caregiver are already standing at her side when I step from the foyer, through the front door and out into the sunshine. I wrap Jenny in my arms and tenderly pull her close, "I'm so sorry, Jenny. You were a wonderful friend."

Somehow, it seems right that she was there to escort him from the building one last time. We watch as Hank's body is loaded and the door firmly closed. I turn once more toward Jenny; she is doing her best not to cry. A tear then two rolls quietly down her cheek. Someone says, "Group Hug" and the three of us pull her close and hold her tight.

I hand Jenny a tissue for her tears. She smiles as she bends to open the carryall bag on her walker. Inside she has at least a hundred tissues waiting to be used. She chose to be his friend when he most needed a friend. Loving Hank came at great cost. I caught a glimpse of love today and it was beautiful.

*all names have been changed

Senior adults are different today from a generation ago.

People age differently, just as they are born with different energy levels, talents, and abilities.