Cake and Cole Porter

When you get real old, honey, you realize there are certain things that just don't matter anymore. You lay it all on the table. There's a saying: Only little children and old folks tell the truth. ~ Sarah Louise Delany

“Stand up in the presence of the elderly, and show respect for the aged. Fear your God. I am the LORD. ~Leviticus 19:32

We were quite a threesome – Courtney and Amber and I – as we carried a large cake and bags of lap blankets up the sidewalk to Buckner Villas. Visiting nursing homes in foreign lands seems natural to me, because for some reason in my mind I can reconcile the “widows and orphans” connection so clearly there. But there’s a sadness what washes over me every time I pass one here in the US, and I get caught in the trap of feeling incapable of being able to offer anything valuable to those inside. This trip was a special request - the Christgiving wish of a dear friend, Libby York. She has a special passion for the elderly, and knows my heart well. She said the journey would be a rich one.

There was music playing as we entered the room where a small group of cotton-topped faces were being entertained by a woman strumming a guitar and singing standards. Some were sleeping, others were listening intently, and a few were singing along. Most were in wheelchairs. The cake was cut and passed around by staff members as eager to enjoy the dessert as they were to share it with their precious residents. We looked around at the faces in the room – so many stories in those eyes, so many memories etched in each wrinkle. Each face - a voice just waiting to be heard.

It was hard not to be mesmerized by Thelma. She sat in the center of the room, tapping her shiny gold-shoed feet in rhythm to the music. It was her birthday – she was 101. And she was happy about it. She was alert and well-dressed, with lovely red nails and hair in a bun. Meeting her was magical. “Do you love to dance too?” she asked in a New York accent that hadn’t faded over the years. “You know, you have to work hard to get to dance on stage.” We talked about ballroom dancing, and she recommended I wear a green gown because it would complement my blonde hair. “It will make an impression on the audience.” Her son, she said, was a dancer, and had traveled from New York to California to pursue his dream. She said she hadn’t heard from him in a while, likely because he was busy with his budding career. “How old is he?” I asked. “Twenty,” she smiled. “I’m here on vacation, you know. But there are so many old people here at this resort.” She asked where my friends and I were from, and when we said Texas, she was shocked. “You traveled all the way from Texas to Baltimore? Why?” One of the nurses gently corrected her, but Thelma rolled her eyes and laughed. “I lived in New York for years. My father bought a house in the suburbs – I could never live in the city in one of those apartments. But I’ve come to Baltimore. This resort is nice, but I don’t socialize with the older people much. I’m here on business.” Her business was dancing, and she believed it should be everyone’s business. She told me I looked like a flapper - quite lovely for 19.

I think that, if I was a dancer in that green ball gown, I would have a perfect partner in Mr. Hoover. Reclining in a custom wheelchair that was heavily padded to make his twisted body more comfortable, he strained to sing every lyric of the Cole Porter songs the guitarist played. “He’s one of our favorites,” a nurse whispered. “He can’t talk, but he can sing.” Most words were difficult to understand, but three were clear and crisp. “Delightful. Delicious. De-Lovely!” He reached for my hand as I sat next to him and Ron, a precious man who loved to laugh, and then he sang for me. There was no sound, yet I felt every note.

Someone else felt every note of the music that day. Idra, a petite woman with lovely curled hair, sat in her wheelchair in the corner. I immediately noticed her hands, clapping in perfect time to the strums of the guitar. At first she was distant, and I was told she had a reputation for being a bit cantankerous. But one question changed everything. “Did you play piano?” She beamed, and introduced herself. She talked about the music, and how she liked her “home.” I offered her a lap blanket, and she began to cry. “This is the nicest thing – that you would bring something for me. It’s really for me?” She then asked about my friends, and the tears came again. “I had a friend. We were friends from kindergarten on. But she died. She was my very best friend. And she’s gone. I miss her so much.” She said she had made some friends at the nursing home, and she really loved her nurse, but there was no one like her best friend. Then she smiled. “I’m sorry I cry. But I cry because I’m happy. You’ve made me happy.”

I watched as Amber embraced Woody, a well-dressed man celebrating his 91st birthday. She held his hand, and he stroked her long, blonde hair as they enjoyed the music, and laughed as they tried to remember the words. Amber had wished for a grandpa – and in that moment, her wish had come true. I couldn’t help but think that, for Woody, holding hands with a pretty lady was one of the best birthday gifts he had had on a long time.

Courtney snuggled next to Jo, a spitfire in a wheelchair who loved to move around. But she calmed down when she saw that smiling face and heard her name. She grabbed Courtney’s face and kissed her forehead. And the happy tears flowed again.

The faces. The voices. The stories. And the wash of sadness happens again – not because I don’t feel I have anything of value to give, but because I’ve waited so long to embrace the moment. I was told that day, “It costs nothing to reach out and hold someone.” Oh, but the riches received in that touch – in those smiles, in those tears. I pray I sing, even when the words don’t come. I pray I am never afraid to cry happy tears. I pray that I’ll always love birthdays. I pray that, if my mind slips a bit, I see myself at a resort. And I pray I always want to dance. Thank you, Thelma, Idra, Woody, Jo, Ron. And you, Mr. Hoover, are absolutely “de-Lovely.”

Dancing with Orphans

I’m home, in my own comfortable bed in my own comfortable home, drinking Starbucks and snuggling with my pup. For the first time in a week, I’ve slept more than 4 hours. For the first time in a week, I’ve not bounded out of bed to travel to do work with orphans. And I must admit - it’s awkward, like the feeling you get after being on the water for a while. Being here, in this comfortable life, feels like anything but that right now. Last night, as I wept, I asked my husband, Brad, if it would ever get easier. He smiled and responded, “I pray it doesn’t.” So this morning, as I rest, I close my eyes and think about dancing with orphans.

Yes, dancing. You don’t have to be around me very long to know how difficult it is for me to be still. Dancing for absolutely no reason at all is natural. Dancing for any good reason at all is complete joy. And in Guatemala, there was dancing. Oh yes, there was dancing.

Looking back at my blogs, my story from Manchen is a bit incomplete. You see, as the team left our makeshift prayer room and turned right to walk to the girls behind bars, I turned left. It wasn’t that I wanted to be by myself – one of the girls we had prayed for was leading me. Holding my hand, she walked over to the concrete ledge surrounding the courtyard, motioned for me to sit, and then snuggled in beside me. She spoke no English, but her desire was clear – she wanted to be held. We sat for a few minutes, my arms wrapped around her, singing to her softly in my very broken Spanish. Two girls who had heard my testimony and received prayer walked over and asked to join us. Then two more girls came and sat on the ledge. We hugged and smiled – and the questions started.

“What does your husband look like?”
“Is your son handsome? Is he single?”
“Where is Texas?”
“What do you do in the United States?”
“Where have you been in Guatemala?”

We sat together, huddled around my iPhone, looking at photos of my family, our pets, our home. I showed them pictures of the foster care kids we took waterskiing earlier in the summer – and though I stumbled through my explanation that the girls in the picture were orphans from the United States, all the girls understood. We looked at pictures of sunny days and snow and friends. And they saw pictures of Cerecaif and Cabecitas. We stumbled through the conversation, with so many “how do you say/como dice” moments mixed in. And then, the question was asked “What music do you like?”

And the dancing began. My small group of beautiful girls and I laughed and danced together to “Jai Ho,” the theme song from Slumdog Millionaire.

Fast forward 24 hours. The team has traveled back to Guatemala City, and has delivered Happy Meals and humanitarian aid to the 13 children at the Buckner Baby Home. We’ve seen Danny, a precious boy who wants so much to have a forever family – his two friends are being adopted and he now asks if anyone will love him enough to take him home. There’s Milagro, a tiny girl who wasn’t expected to live – now walking around with a huge smile on her face. There’s Crystal, dumped at a hospital with severe medical conditions. She’s laughing and speaking in English and Spanish. The children at the home are well cared for, receiving medical treatment and lots of love. We’ve gone to the grocery store to purchase everything we need to have a cookout and bake cupcakes for the teens and house parents at the Buckner Transition Homes. And the “host” home is now filled with the fragrance of chocolate in the oven and burgers on the grill.

Our special guests arrive – each one an orphan who has “aged out” of the system and given an opportunity to go to university or trade school while living in a safe and loving environment. I recognize at least a half-dozen girls from our visit to Manchen last year. They are literally “glowing,” so grateful for a home and friends and support and freedom. The kitchen fills with teens, and with Brynn and Stacey’s help, frost and decorate the cupcakes – a new treat for many of them. We set up the buffet for hamburgers and hotdogs while “Grillmaster Jim” works busily outside with his assistants, Christi and Mandy. Phyllis and Denny Scheminske, friends who live in Guatemala City and are helping our team, bring plates of tomatoes, onions, guacamole and cheese to the table. More than 60 people – teens, young moms, house parents – are being served. Courtney prepares bouquets of roses for all the house moms, talking to our interpreter, Melissa, and Oscar, one of the young men who is now in trade school. Patrick tries to capture every moment on camera while Ryan plays soccer with the guys. This is a party.

The house is filled with that wonderful blend of talking and laughter and sports on the television– and soon, a new sound is added. Music. This isn’t a party – this is a HOUSE party. On the patio, the girls are showing everyone their dance routine to “Single Ladies” by Beyonce. The music is an invitation – a bridge that crosses language and culture and age. I look around, and there is dancing everywhere. Joyful, unfettered dancing. From toe-tapping to full-out spins and twirls, we are all dancing with orphans.

So again, here I am now, resting in my uncomfortable comfort as I reflect on our time in Guatemala. And I laugh a bit as the tears flow – my foot is moving to the sound of the music in my mind. There’s such sweet liberty in the dance. It’s in that dance I feel truly free. Thank You Lord for that freedom.

Thank you to my amazing team: Patrick Lockerman, Mandy Cortina, Christi Uckerek, Courtney Nowakowski, Jim Shields, Brynn Paine, Ryan Nowakowski, and Stacey Yellen. Thank you Phyllis and Denny for joining us on the journey. Thank you Victor and Andrea for interpreting in Xela. Thank you Berta and Melissa for your tireless care for us. Thank you Buckner for your work in Guatemala. Thank you to those who contributed through prayer and donations. And thank you Guatemala, for opening your arms so we could serve.

A note to my mom.

Hi mom.

Wow, I love that word – “mom.” It’s just bursting with warmth and hugs and laughter and the smell of yummy things coming from the kitchen. That word means comfort to me even now. I love you.

I would say I hope things are going well for you, but even the thought of using the word “hope” makes me smile. Of course things are going well for you – so very well. Your beauty is more radiant than ever. I wish I could see you now, vibrant and healthy and dancing. I know you are dancing, no matter what you are doing. I close my eyes and see us moving together – to some wonderful Latin samba or the tender strains of a movie theme – and my feet feel the rhythm you passed on to me.

I try to imagine your life now. And I ponder what you are doing with that life. I can’t help but think you have graciously accepted one of two roles. You could be in the kitchen, preparing for a feast. Every ingredient would be so pure, the measures exact, and even those little “just throw it in for fun” moments would be perfect. Or you could be in the garden. Oh how you loved the smell of earth and grass and flowers! I remember walking home from school and finding you busy in the flowerbeds, planting and pruning. To think that now the sun wouldn’t burn that delicate skin and the weeds wouldn’t choke out the blooms – you could stay in those gardens all day.

Mom, what’s it like? What is it like with no more darkness, no more pain, no more sickness, no more evil or hatred or self-centeredness? What is it like to experience only happy tears? What does color look like when there’s no gray?

Gosh, I miss you. There are countless times when I just want to grab the phone and call you to tell you the latest news – “Ian is engaged!” or “I lost my job.” or “I just met my sister - mom, she looks like you!” I cling to the thought that you do see – that you are indeed part of the “great cloud of witnesses” that cheers us on as we continue to live this life. I want to believe you have seen Gina – oh, what an amazing gift she is to all of us! I want to believe you smile when you see our “Petite Assembly” gather around the table for home cooking and fellowship on Sunday nights. I want to believe you still say “isn’t Brad a wonderful husband?” to those standing next to you. And if I’m very quiet, I promise I still hear your voice sing “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck…”

Mom, thank you for all you taught me. Thank you for potato soup and dances on the living room rug and how you gently stroked my hair when I was tired. Thank you for the poems you wrote and the laughter that filled every space. Thank you for calling me “beautiful” and “graceful” when I didn’t feel that way. Thank you for telling me I could do anything I set my mind to, and that you loved my strong will because I would stand for something great someday. Thank you for being unafraid to seek God – even when you were angry with Him. And most of all, thank you for the best hugs in the world.

I can’t wait to see you again. May I have the first dance?