It was a
Christmas I will never forget--the only one since our marriage ten
years before, that Helen and I could not spend Christmas together. I had seen
Helen off on the plane the day before, to spend Christmas with her folks in the
northern part of the province, as there was sickness in her family and they
requested that she spend Christmas with them. And as it so happened, my mother
was ill too, and I felt that I should go home to spend Christmas with my folks.
Early in the afternoon that Christmas Eve day, the weather forecasters
were predicting heavy rain and high winds by evening for the southern coast of
British Columbia. I had planned to drive to my Mom and Dad's, but I didn't want
to risk the 90-mile drive in bad weather. I called to tell them that I would see
them the next day at my sister's.
When I hung
up the phone, it hit me--I would be spending Christmas Eve all alone. I couldn't
bear the thought. So I decided to visit our old friends, Cyril and Nelda, who
had recently moved to a nearby nursing home. They had been our neighbors for
twelve years, and we had watched sadly their health and their mobility
deteriorating, as they reached their late eighties.
Our
friendship had begun with a chance meeting while I was working in the garden,
and they were on their way to their mailbox on the corner. We exchanged friendly
greetings. From then on they would stop and talk for a moment whenever I was in
the yard. It was Cyril who encouraged Helen to pursue her writing. Cyril was an
established author, having had many works published. He and Helen would spent
many an evening together discussing their writing, while Nelda and I chatted
about our hilarious experiences of trying our hands, unsuccessfully, at wine
making.
Now, I
wondered if God had a reason for wanting me to visit with these friends. Since
their having entered the nursing home several months earlier, Helen and I had
visited them only once. So I hastily wrote out a Christmas card, and while
driving over, stopped at the corner store and picked up a small plant, then
drove through the pouring rain to the nursing home.
When I
enquired at the desk for their room number, the receptionist explained that
Nelda, now suffering from Alzheimer's, had been transferred to an
assisted-living center nearby. She had deteriorated so badly that she no longer
recognized even Cyril. However, I was informed that Cyril was still in
residence.
I found
Cyril's room. The door was ajar and as I poked my head into the room, I somehow
expected to find him surrounded by people. After all, it was Christmas Eve. But
Cyril was alone, sitting in a chair in the darkened room, his eyes closed. I
could see, clutched in his shaking hand, what looked like a piece of notepaper.
"Cyril? ....
Are you awake?" I asked, as I touched his shoulder. He raised his head slowly.
"It's Hart," I said. " I … I brought you a Christmas card." He looked confused
at first, and I wasn't sure if he remembered me.
Slowly his
eyes focused. With trembling hand he took the card I had handed him. Without
further greeting, he passed it back to me and said, "Would you read it for me?"
I felt my
throat tighten with emotion. During the past year, his life had changed
dramatically. Only last Christmas, he and Nelda had been cooking their own
meals, and had been out walking together, chatting amicably with neighbors. I
opened the card and paused for a moment, while I fought back tears. I remembered
the passage from the Bible: "Whatever you did for one of the least of these
brothers of mine, you did for me." I remembered all the times we had chatted
back and forth over the garden fence, and I wondered if God had wanted to be
sure that Cyril would have a visitor on this Christmas Eve.
Cyril listened intently as I read the message inside the card I had brought him,
and as I put it on his dresser, he handed me the paper he had been holding in
his hand. "Here," he said shakily. "I want you to read this. I just finished it
a few minutes ago. It's to my Nelda…. You…you know she doesn't recognize anyone
anymore. Not even me." His voice broke.
I took the
paper, respectfully unfolding it, and began reading the surprisingly legible
handwriting:
MY NELDA
Christmas time was always special,
You just made it so, somehow.
And although my heart is paining.
I'll pretend you're with me now.
All those years we were together;
All the trials and joys we knew,
Seem like feathers in a windstorm,
Or like early morning dew.
You are gone, but not forgotten
Your sweet voice I still can hear,
But I wish that you were with me
Like you were for all those years.
So this day I'll spend remembering
All the good times that we had,
And the years we spent together,
This alone should make me glad.
Before I had
even finished his poem, we both had tears in our eyes, and we spent a while
reminiscing about happier times.
Cyril shared
with me many private moments that he had had with his beloved Nelda. And then he
said again. "She's …g… gone, Hart. She's gone from me. She doesn't …. know me
any more."
Soon his
nurse came in to say that they were serving cake and ice cream in the recreation
room. Would I join them?
As Cyril
moved slowly out of the room with his walker, the nurse told me, in barely more
than a whisper, that Cyril rarely had visitors. She patted my arm and said, "You
are an angel sent from God."
That
Christmas Eve I realized that God wanted me to experience loneliness, to remind
me that there is always someone who is far more lonely than I am - and that my
visit may be the only attention that "one of the least of these" receives.
And what makes this
particular Christmas so unforgettable is that shortly after, both Nelda and
Cyril passed on into the next life..
Hart
and Helen
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