Take My Hand Again

A Christmas Homecoming

December 17, 2019 by Nancy 5 Comments

A common refrain from those living in care facilities is, “I just want to go home.” This sentiment is most often expressed by those in memory care who may not be able to remember why it was that they needed a safe, different environment in which to live. One facility I visited installed a bus stop in the hallway. Just sitting on the bench waiting for the bus seemed to calm the residents wanting to go home until the desire to do so passed them by.

This makes us sad, but we can understand that all hearts yearn to go home—especially at Christmas time. If we can’t take our seniors home for Christmas in the real sense, what can we do to bring home to them?

A good place to start is with the story of the first Christmas recorded in Luke, Chapter 2. Although our elders may have heard this passage of Scripture read in church services every Christmas of their lives, they may not have thought about the fact that none of the main characters in the story were home on the first Christmas.
Joseph had once lived in that region which is why he was required to transport his pregnant wife on a donkey, taking her with him to register for the census in Bethlehem. But it wasn’t home to him. Mary likely had never been there before. She was young, about to give birth, and far away from her family and familiar surroundings. Surely she yearned to go home.

And then there’s the Baby Jesus himself. The star of the story. He certainly wasn’t home. He left the glories of heaven, where He reigned next to Almighty God, and humbled himself to come to earth as a tiny baby born in a stable surrounded by animals. Jesus later said, “For I have come down from heaven not to do my will but to do the will of him who sent me…For my Father’s will is that everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life…” (John 6:38, 40). He left His celestial home for a significant purpose.

Sharing this perspective on the Christmas story may lead to some heartfelt discussions about home. It’s common for elders to let messages of discouragement bring them down, especially over the holidays. They may remember all the years they decorated their homes, baked for days, wrapped presents, set beautiful tables, served scrumptious meals, and then they wonder, “Did any of it matter? Does anyone even remember those Christmases?”

The best gift you can give an elder parent is to tell them, “I remember.” If possible, go through old photos and create a small album of photos from Christmases past. Include recipe cards for favorite annual treats or other mementos of your family Christmases.

As you look at the album with your loved one tell her, “I’ve tried to make your crescent cookies but they never turn out as good as yours.” Or tell him, “I really believed those footprints you made in the snow were from Santa!” It doesn’t matter what you share, just that you say, “I remember.” With or without an album of photos, sharing fond Christmas memories with the elders you love may be the best gift you can give them. Merry Christmas to all!

First published in Pikes Peak Senior News, Winter 2019-2020.

The September Rose

September 9, 2019 by Nancy 16 Comments

Why is it that September roses seem more beautiful than those of June? Maybe it’s because we thought we’d seen the last of the blossoms, but then the rose bush surprises us with a new burst. Just a little plant food, water, and sunshine and voila! Another showing of delicate pink buds appears to remind us that warm, summer days are still with us, and beauty will continue to appear where we least expect it.

My rose bush is a common rambler, but my neighbor has a glorious hedgerow of Rose of Sharon bushes. Really from the hibiscus family, these blooms wait until late August or early September to come into their glory. In the Bible, the Rose of Sharon symbolizes beauty, and it is used in the poetic book of Song of Solomon to describe the beauty of a lover. This year we were all surprised when a darker pink section appeared in a bush that was always covered with light pink flowers in years past. Some sort of beautiful, botanical miracle!

At our last house, I had a more sophisticated rose that only had two or three blossoms at a time. Still, each year in September it would gather all the nutrients it had left to produce one perfect rose which I always dubbed “the last rose of summer.” I’m not the only one to appreciate such simple solitude. In 1830, Thomas Moore wrote, “’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone; All her lovely companions are faded and gone.”

What lesson does the late or last September rose have for us? Maybe it’s a sign that whatever our age we, too, have more to offer the world than we have yet revealed—even more than the world expects of us. If summer has rejuvenated us at all, can we pull on the resources we’ve stored up to go into fall producing something that makes the world a more beautiful, better place?

I must have loved going back to school in the fall as a child, because September always gives me a boost. It feels more like a new year than January 1 ever did! It’s a time to set goals, to mend any fences with broken pickets, to look forward to the coming autumn, even winter, with an expectation that the days will be worth celebrating just because they exist.

Might there be hard times to come? Sure. The farmer’s almanac predicts a cold and blustery winter. But as we are surviving it, the rose bush buried under the snow will be resting up for a new show of glory come next summer. That wise sage Ziggy is quoted as saying, “You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.” Let’s enjoy the last rose of summer, applaud her resilience, and be optimistic about the beauty in the days to come—even if there are some thorns, too.

What a Wonderful World

March 29, 2019 by Nancy 14 Comments

As our world begins to come to life with all the beauties and promises of springtime, I’m reminded of a song that holds special meaning for me. A month before my mom passed away in 2008 I was visiting her in Tennessee. The assisted living facility where she lived often had live music events in their dining hall, and my mother loved to attend them. Since one was scheduled while I was there, we went!

Men were in short supply, so the ladies often danced alone or with one another. With the first strains of “What a Wonderful World,” the song made famous by Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong, Mom turned to me and said, “Let’s dance!” We did, and I’m forever grateful for that memory.

May the lyrics to the song remind you, too, that there is still so much beauty, so much wonder in our world to celebrate! And so much for which to be grateful to the Lord who created it all (John 1:3).

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people goin’ by
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’
“How do you do?”
They’re really sayin’,
“I love you.”

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world

Listen to Louis sing it here!

Songwriter: Doug Dipreta
© BMG Rights Management, Concord Music Publishing LLC

Who Comes to Book Signings?

January 28, 2019 by Nancy 18 Comments

Unless you are John Grisham or on trial for murdering your spouse with a dull spoon, the answer to the title question is “not many people at all.” Only a few times in my twenty plus years as an author have I had actual lines forming to obtain my signature, and then only when I’ve had a chance to speak first. But regardless, I packed up my low expectations and gratefully accepted an invitation to have a signing at the Barnes & Noble in Pueblo, CO, recently.

Was it a wasted afternoon? Not at all. How encouraging it was to walk in and see two of my titles, Take My Hand Again and The Hope of Glory, all piled up and waiting on a cloth-covered table by the door. Friendly employees offered a comfortable chair and any assistance I needed. Then I sat expectantly.

I did think most visitors to my table would be human, but was delighted when the first one to show any interest at all was a young golden doodle. She didn’t want to read the books, but didn’t chew on any either, so that was good. I loved seeing her pink bows.

At one point in the afternoon I thought I should check to see if someone had posted a sign on the front of the table reading, “Leave your best advice here.” First a gentleman stopped to peruse my books, then looked at me and asked, “Are you a Christian lady?” “Yes, I am,” I replied. “Well, do you know what EGO stands for?” he asked. “Edging God Out. We all have the power of the Holy Spirit in us but we don’t always tap into it because of our egos.” I agreed with him and he wandered off.

Next I was approached by a woman who also took the time to look at both books before offering, “Life’s a journey. We shouldn’t focus too much on the past or we’ll miss the present and the future.” Good advice, that.

The two visitors I enjoyed the most, however, were two older ladies who wandered by looking for a place to sit while their families shopped. I was happy to stand for a while, and they were happy to sit and visit.

The first woman, Faith, had owned an independent bookstore in Pueblo for years before retiring in her eighties. She cheerfully predicted a swing back to a preference for hard cover books, and her parting advice was that whatever our political persuasions, we should all write Congress hand-written letters—“the only ones that make a difference!”

And then there was the guest that made the whole afternoon worthwhile. Sadie accepted my offer of the chair as soon as she entered the store with her husband, daughter and son-in-law. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but when you turn 90 things just start going to pot. My feet hurt and I can’t shop like I used to.” Over the 30 minutes or so she kept me company, we shared details of our lives. She told me she was born in the US but raised in Mexico, returning to Pueblo in the Seventies. She and her husband of 72 years have 10 children, 30 grandchildren, and wait for it, 94 great and great-great grandchildren! I sheepishly told her that my first great grandchild was due any day.

Sharing that she couldn’t read my books due to macular degeneration, Sadie said, “I accept whatever the good Lord sends, but sometimes it makes me sad.” It made me sad, too.

While Sadie was sitting in my author chair, a young woman and her family entered the store. “Grandma!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Sadie rose to give hugs punctuated with kisses on both cheeks to the girl, her husband, and her son. They went off to shop. Sadie sat down, turned to me and said, “I know that’s one of my granddaughters, but I can’t remember her name.” Understandable. When Sadie’s daughter came to reclaim her, she cleared up the confusion. I got a Sadie hug, we said our goodbyes, and they left.

I did sell two books to other shoppers that afternoon, but driving home I realized that the Lord hadn’t sent me there to sell books, just to remember why I wrote books for the elderly and those who care for them in the first place. It was an afternoon well spent…and a success in that not a single person asked me if I knew where the bathroom was.

Stairway to Heaven

July 26, 2018 by Nancy 16 Comments

I’ve climbed the beautiful, spiral staircase at the assisted living community where I volunteer many times without thinking of it as the stairway to heaven. But for some reason, today as I climbed from the first floor with its lovely entryway, library and dining room, to the second floor with the activity room where we have The Hope of Glory Bible study, that’s exactly what came to mind.

Maybe my long-term memory was activated by being in the presence of those older than I who cherish this intact part of their brains, and I was reminded of the prom theme we had my junior year in high school. Two by two couples lined up for the coveted prom photo. Girls in long satin dresses boasting wrist corsages leaned in to boys in brown suits sporting their father’s ties. Behind each couple was the backdrop the prom committee painted on butcher paper of a long spiral staircase. Glittery letters at the top read, “Stairway to Heaven.”

Of course, our idea of heaven in the Sixties was a really hot date and getting to stay out later than usual to go to the after parties, or the less sanctioned parties held on the banks of a Tennessee lake. Gratefully, it’s not this temporal, somewhat carnal, concept of heaven that I show up to talk about to the assisted living residents. Rather it’s the gospel truth that we won’t have to climb the 21 steps I counted today to get to heaven, or even take the optional elevator! It’s the message that there’s only one step needed, belief in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.

Most of the residents at this facility, lovely as it is, are there because they need help of some kind—either due to physical impairment or loss of mental acuity. Although they don’t dwell on this fact, the blessed among them realize that their next destination is heaven. Together we explore how this late season of life in which they find themselves is still life, and that God has a purpose for them as long as they have breath. Then they will enjoy eternal life with Him!

It could be because I’ve been to two memorial services within a week that I’m reflecting on heaven now. Both were for women who lived long, full lives, leaving behind memories of stories told, quilts made, meals served, grandchildren cherished, and husbands adored. Hearing about their lives, and their strong Christian faith shared through generations, makes every remaining minute of my life seem more valuable to me somehow—more primed with possibility. They ran their races well, leaving me with a longing to make any time I have left count for something—especially for those things that are small in the eyes of the world, but large in the eyes of heaven.

In my book, Take My Hand Again, I talk about how hard it was to say goodbye to the assisted living residents I came to love through our time in Bible study, and today I was reminded that I’m still vulnerable to that kind of heartache. And I’m not alone. I just finished the engaging book A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home by Sue Halpern, who also grew fond of the residents she took her dog, Pransky, to visit each week. The author recalls standing at a distance at the graveside service of a friend and resident named Fran because she had the lovable labradoodle with her. She stood amazed as she saw all the people who gathered to honor the woman she and Pransky had only come to know and love in her last years. They had no idea how many lives Fran’s had touched, they only knew she had touched theirs.

Love hurts, but it’s always worth it. And there’s this stairway to heaven, where the loss and pain of aging is no more! There we will celebrate together all the love we’ve received, and all the love we’ve given away.

The Hope of Glory, A Devotional Guide for Older Adults, and Take My Hand Again, A Faith-based Guide for Helping Older Parents, are both available on Amazon.com.

Carol, Agnes, and the Love of Purses

April 21, 2018 by Nancy 14 Comments

Once again I’m pleased to feature fellow LPC author Carol G. Heilman in my “Take My Hand Again” blog. Carol has written two books about the antics of Agnes Hopper, an assisted living resident who gets into all sorts of scrapes and situations. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting Agnes in Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar and look forward to catching up with her in Agnes Bets on Murder. (Find both at Amazon.com.) Meet Carol, and then enjoy her blog post about Agnes and her love of purses!

Meet Carol
Carol Heilman, a coal miner’s daughter, married her high school sweetheart, a farmer’s son. She began writing family stories, especially about her dad’s Appalachian humor, for newspapers and magazines. One day her mother said, “We don’t have any secrets anymore!” Her book series on Agnes Hopper (see above) was inspired by her mother’s spunky spirit and her dad’s humor. She has recently moved, along with her husband of fifty-plus years, from the mountains of NC to Charleston, SC. They love to play cards, go antiquing, hike, and visit grandsons on the east and west coasts.

The Love of Purses
Pocketbooks, handbags, purses–whatever you call them, they are essential items in most women’s wardrobes.

I have a collection of old ones that I hold dear. The largest tapestry one, as well as the tiny beaded one, belonged to my great grandmother. Mother’s oldest sister carried the soft black purse. I found the black one with the silver handle in an antique shop.

Agnes Marie Hopper, the main character in my books, also loves purses. She found her favorite, a red-leather one soft as a baby’s behind, in a garage sale. She carries it everywhere, even to the retirement home’s front porch where she rocks and knits and tries to straighten out her tangled thoughts.

Agnes always has a Cox Brothers Funeral Home fan resting in an outside pocket of her big purse. The small southern town of Sweetbriar can be sultry hot, just like that July day when she moved to The Manor. Only on that day, when she needed it the most, her fan had seemed to vanish.

Agnes once told her daughter, Betty Jo, “Every woman ought to have a rain bonnet, a fan, headache powder, and a clean hanky in her purse at all times.”

Do you have a favorite purse?
Why is it your favorite?
What does it look like?
Is it old or new?
What items do you think are essential to carry?