Horizons magazine is published by Presbyterian Women (PW) the national women’s organization of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).
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seven years old, they enjoy watching it over and over again and making the story their own. Their favorite line, which they quote around the house, comes from "Babs"—a grandmotherly chicken who says, upon escaping the "chopper": "My whole life flashed before my eyes!" And then she frowns, adding, "It was really boring." No one wants to live a boring life. M And no one wants others to think they are boring. Even when we are boring, we don't want others to think that's how we always are, or always have been. Which is why, when we minister to the elderly, we listen to their stories. We are intentional about discovering there is more to the person we are caring for than what we might see in her as she sits in her regular spot in the church pew, watches television in her room at the nursing home, or lies in a hospital bed at a medical facility. In listening to her sto- ries, we come to know her—which is exactly what she (like any of us) wants. But what happens when an elderly person can no longer tell her stories? Is there, at this point, no escaping the perception that she is boring? This would be disconcerting, indeed. In one exercise I do with church folks, I ask participants to write down their great- est fear. By far the number one fear indicated by those who are elderly is that their loved ones will remember them only in their least-capacitated state, rather than as who they were when they were . . . well . . . less boring. Making the Stories of Others Known We should commit ourselves to learn- ing and preserving the stories of those who can no longer tell them. We should tell these stories on their behalf. My father, now in his mid-70s, made a point of talking extensively with his mother in the years before she died at y children's favorite DVD, these days, is Chicken Run. Five and age 94. At her funeral service, he told a wonderful story I had never before heard—how she, during the Depres- sion, was in the habit of inviting "tramps" coming off a local train to eat lunch on her porch. Those in the room who knew my grandmother well in her aged, uncooperative body suddenly had an image of her as a young woman determinedly handing out peanut butter sandwiches (despite, by the way, the good wishes of her hus- band!). They must have thought, "That Doris Rigby was one faithful, interest- ing woman!" Unfortunately, not every elderly person who can no longer tell her sto- ries has someone who can tell them for her. Aging and dying people often are cared for in facilities removed from the people who knew them best; care- takers in these facilities often are so overworked they have little time to fig- ure out how their patients are "inter- esting." Let's face it: learning others' stories to the point of being able to tell them takes a lot of time and effort. To treat the elderly as though they are boring is, frankly, far more efficient than treating them as those who have had interesting lives. The Pain of Unknown Stories My maternal grandmother died in a place where her stories were not known. I remember visiting her more than 20 years ago, shortly before I left for a year of missionary service in the Philippines. My future husband, Bill, came with me (I am so grateful my grandmother got to meet him!). We sat for a few hours by her bedside, hoping to communicate. I remember a legion of tubes, and beeping sounds and nurses moving about. I sat in silence; I asked questions; I chattered about what I was up to. But Grandma didn't say a word. She stared straight up into the air, eyes open. I couldn't tell whether or not she was hearing me. At one point, a caretaker came over with a jar of baby food and a spoon. "C'mon, Hazel Baby," she coaxed, try- ing to push the spoon into my grand- mother's mouth the way a parent might do with a stubborn child. And my grandmother indeed reacted like a stubborn child, shaking her head vig- orously and tightening her lips. "C'mon, Hazel Baby. Eat just a spoon- ful. For me?" I was appalled. "Hazel Baby?!" Clearly, this woman knew nothing about my grandmother and the life she had lived. She didn't know about the sermon Hazel Goddard had preached, in the place of her husband (a Salva- tion Army minister), several days after he died. "Well," I remember Grandma saying, "someone had to preach." The caretaker didn't know about the years Grandma worked in a suitcase factory to support her two young girls. She didn't know about the countless quilts Grandma had made, or the orange chiffon cakes she had baked and deco- rated with red licorice merry-go- rounds; or the boxes of "refunding" materials—box tops and other proofs of purchase she gathered in her base- ment to send in exchange for refunds that she inevitably gave away. My grandmother was not "Hazel Baby." My grandmother was interesting. When it was time to say goodbye to Grandma—who I knew would die while I was away—I told her one more time that I had finished my mas- ter of divinity degree and that Bill and I were going to the Philippines to serve as missionaries. Suddenly, and with great effort, my grandmother turned her head to the side and looked straight at me: "I knew it!" she said—loudly, clearly and with absolute conviction. Those are the final words my grandmother spoke to me; words that have always given me confi- dence and courage to embrace the ministerial work to which I am called. November/December 2011 5