Love In Action

He comes into a room like sunlight, silent in his gum-soled shoes, his remarkably pale blue eyes crinkling quizzically beneath the gray, bat-winged eyebrows, brightening everything in his presence.  You can't help but be momentarily amazed at how very tall and lean he is - well over six feet.  His gauntness could portray the Grim Reaper except that his graceful, fluid movements depict just the opposite:  absolute sweetness, a gentleness not born of this world.  At first glance, he appears shy and hesitant as if he has just discovered that he doesn't know you, and he's in the wrong room.  He isn't!  There is no wrong room for him!  He is warmly welcomed into every room of the nursing home.           He visits at least three or four days a week, an Ichabod Crane-like Santa dispensing hugs, kisses, pats on the head, and lingering, heartfelt embraces.  When he has extra time, he sits down at the old, upright piano in the dining room and loudly hammers out the familiar songs of days gone by, making the music resound throughout the building.  As soon as he begins, the elderly patients appear in their doorways and slowly make their way to the dining room.  This is one of the highlights of their lives!           He's never had a lesson; he just hears the songs in his head, and after a little practice, he can play them.  He entertains just to delight and brighten the lives of anyone within earshot. Exuberantly, he rattles the ivories on the out-of-tune relic, making the dishes jump on the tables.  The tired, the sick, the sad, the lonely, the dying, old people suddenly become animated, sweet memories filling their heads, singing and nodding along to whatever he plays.  "I remember the night of the Tennessee Waltz, when an old friend I happened to meet . . . . . ", "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do . . .", ". . . when the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there."           Tonight, he steps into my Mom's room as he always does when he's there, silently snaking his way carefully through the chairs and bed tables cluttering the too-small room.  He notices that Mom isn't in her room, talks briefly with me about how college is going for me, and how life is going for him, then starts to excuse himself.  I notice how very tired he looks this particular night.  It's nearly nine o'clock and I'm sure his day has been as long as mine.   He is 72-years-old and still employed because they need him, up before sunrise to get evertyhing done.  I do that too, so I know just how tired he must feel.           "She'll be back in a little bit," I say.  "Why don't you sit for a minute.  I haven't seen you lately; I guess we're on different schedules now."           "Well, yes, sure, I can do that," he replies, but he remains standing for a few moments as if pondering.  Weariness is written across his softly smiling face.  He spreads huge hands that hang limply from his meter-length arms in a wide, thigh-high half circle.            "You know," he begins, shrugging wearily before he sits, " I never wonder anymore why it seems so important for me to come in here.  I've met so many wonderful people like your Mom and you, your brothers and their families, and other residents and their families.  So many nice people here, and I feel like that's important."  But, the real reason I keep coming back is to see Mother even though I know she doesn't know I'm here.  Yet, sometimes when I stroke her face or just sit holding her hand, she'll look at me with such clarity that I believe she does know I'm here.  I'm almost sure she does", he says, his soft voice full of awe at the concept.           It isn't just fatigue that I see in his face.  There is sadness there too, clearly visible tonight, contrasting with the shining light in his blue eyes.           "Oh!  I know she does!  Even if she was in the deepest coma, she would know", I assure him.  "I've always believed that people do.  Love is a very powerful force.  It must be so hard for you to come in all the time when she can't recognize or respond to you, isn't really aware of your presence.  You are such a wonderful son to do that for her.  I really mean that; most sons wouldn't do it, or daughters either for that matter."           "Well, I don't know," he  ponders, "but most of the family has quit coming in except for my sister Mary.  She still comes in.  But, Lin, you know, I just feel like I have to.  Even if Mother doesn't know I'm here, there might be just one little thing I do while I'm here that will mean something to one other person, and that's enough reason right there.  If I can do something to make someone else happy, they in some way will pass that to another person, and I don't know what the final result will be.  I'll never know what effect it will have or on how many people by the time they pass it on."           "I've thought the same thing for years, Quentin," I exclaim!  In fact, I wrote a poem about it years ago.  My analogy was throwing a pebble into a pond and watching the ever-expanding circles.  That's the same effect our actions have.  You're right.  We don't kow the result,, but God does.  He's in charge of the widening circles and whose lives are touched.  Once we've tossed the pebble, 'done a kindness', no matter how small, we have no control over its effects.  We could no more stop the rippling repercussions than we could stop the sun in its place.  What a powerful concept!"           "Yes, it really is.  I knew you'd understand" says  the weary, willowy bringer of joy.  He stands, smiles and shares a hug.  Something spiritual has just passed between us because our Mothers happen to be in the same nursing home at the same moment in the vastness of time.  We are kindred souls sharing kindred knowlege of the power of God's love.  Two burdens have been lightened, two spirits brightened.           Quentin walks a little lighter leaving than when he entered.  What a remarkable man!  If his 93-year-old mother lives to be 100, he will still faithfully come to see her if he can, touching the lives of dozens, probably hundreds of others through the years as he does.           My Mom still hasn't returned from getting ready for bed, so he goes on down the hall, busily brightening lives as he stops briefly in every room.           After Mom comes back and is put to bed, I sit next to her like I always do, brushing the hair away from her sleepy eyes, wishing her sweet dreams, reminding her that I love her, that Jesus is her best friend, and He's waiting to hear from her, so be sure to say her prayers.    Suddenly, her eyes jump to a spot above my head in the distance, her face instantly radiant with that inimitably beautiful smile of hers.  I know without turning around to look that Quentin is back, approaching silent as a cat.  I move to give him my perch on  the edge of the bed by Mom.  She treasures these moments.  They visit, share a hug, a kiss, and a goodnight wish.           Now, for three people for sure, and for many more falling asleep in their beds up and down that hallway, the world is a happier place simply because of one man.  With the simple joy of a young boy standing on the banks of a creek nestled in the deep green of a silent wood, he has tossed his pebbles of kindness into the stream of life.            The ripples of love flow ever outward touching hearts, minds, lives and souls, and in the process, like the tide, they come rushing back in to bless the heart of the giver as well.

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