Sunday afternoon

Today after church I gathered music charts from the various stands and joined George, who stood talking with one of the elders. George turned to me and grinned. “I just volunteered you for something this afternoon.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?”

The elder also smiled. “I can’t reach the guy who said he’d hold a worship service today at Merritt Plaza Nursing Home, so George agreed to speak.”

George added, “And I told him you’d play the piano.”

I shrugged. “Okay with me.”

Ryan, our praise band guitarist, also volunteered to play, so George, Jacob, and I met him at Merritt Plaza about five minutes before the service was supposed to begin. When George suggested I play while the residents gathered, I launched into some of the older, familiar hymns, and Ryan played along.

About half-way through the first song, I heard another guitar behind me and glanced over my shoulder. One of the residents–a woman who appeared to be in her sixties or so–was hunched over a beat-up, three-quarter-size classical, strumming away. Her strings weren’t tuned, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because she played in her own key at her own, energetic pace. Given her age and physical agility, I’m guessing a mentally degenerative condition landed her in the nursing home. She obviously loved music. Her enthusiastic performance inspired me to play with more gusto and a grin on my face.

A few minutes later the woman stopped playing, approached Jacob, and tried to hand him her guitar. After a brief, Three-Stooges-esque swap routine involving Jacob’s Bible and the guitar, the woman managed to place the Bible on the piano bench and the guitar in Jacob’s lap.

Jacob was so sweet, he never uttered a word of protest as he attempted to accomodate her wishes for him to play, but he doesn’t have the fine motor ability to handle a guitar. He just looked at it helplessly until the woman took it back.

Then she pulled out a harmonica. Much to my surprise and delight, she was quite good, as long as I stayed in the key of C. George cheered her on, and she played for a while. But then she tried to hand the harmonica to Jacob, too. This time George intervened before he took it.

When George began the actual service, the woman left the meeting room. A dozen or so residents had gathered, most in wheelchairs, and a few seated at tables. We sang several hymns, and then George spoke on the first part of Isaiah 43. He encouraged them to believe that God had been with them in every stage of their lives and still is, no matter how hard and hopeless circumstances can seem. He told them their life purpose hasn’t changed–that it is still to bring glory and pleasure to God.

As he spoke I remembered one of the last times I visited my grandmother before she died. Mimi had suffered several strokes, and her entire left side was paralyzed. When I said God could still use her–even if it was just to love people–her face lit up, and she whispered, “There are so many people to love.”

I scanned the faces at the service this afternoon, and I knew that even if only a mustard seed of faith remained in them, they could move mountains with their prayers. There are so many people who need prayer. So many people to love.

When George finished speaking, we sang one more hymn. Then Ryan and I played while George walked around and visited the residents. The musical lady came back in–this time without her guitar. She stood beside the piano bench and watched me. Then she said, “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all!” I scooted over and made room for her on the bench.

Her fingers immediately formed chords and she played, but again in a different key. I paused, glanced at her hands, and adjusted to match her, but she’d already stopped. Her confused expression made me think she’d expected to blend right in, and the discordant sound had surprised her. I felt pretty certain she’d been an accomplished musician at some point. The music inside her ached for release, but her brain could no longer readily comply.

“We’ll play in C if you like,” I said. I reached over and played the chord in front of her, but she still just watched. So I started playing Jesus Loves Me. She stared at my hands with an intensity in her eyes that broke my heart. Then, instead of playing, she sang. “They are weak, but Thou art strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes . . .”

Her voice trailed off as her face contorted and tears sprang to her eyes. Then–embarrassed–she quickly rose and scuttled out of the room, followed by the lullaby-like notes and my prayers.

Merritt Plaza isn’t just a nursing home to our family. Nine years ago Jacob lived there for eight months as he emerged from coma. It was there he first cried. It was there he first laughed. During those months I came to fully understand that broken bodies and addled minds imprison living souls. No one is insignificant. Everyone matters.

God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the mighty, and some of those “weak things” are living out their last days in a wheelchair in the antiseptic halls of a humble nursing facility. Day after day they sit, believing. Worshiping. Loving. And mattering to God.

They are weak, but He is strong. Yes. Jesus loves me.
And you.
And them.

The Bible tells me so.