South central
Iowa is the home of my people. By that I mean that both my mother and my father
were raised there. Although we moved quite often and always lived some distance
from the area that they called home, we visited nearly every year. As a result,
that area of the country became something like home for me as well.
I looked
forward to being back in Iowa most summers. And when we lived in Omaha, we were
able to spend Christmas with our relatives as well. I didn’t have many cousins
my age, but it didn’t matter. When we visited we were treated like royalty.
Many of my uncles and aunts farmed. For
a city kid, doing some simple chores like gathering eggs or ‘helping’ in some
other way was a treat. The only thing better was chasing fireflies on hot Iowa
nights while the adults talked, and then having an older cousin make a firefly
ring for me. If you don’t know what that is, you probably shouldn’t ask.
A few weeks
ago, my husband and I had the privilege of being in Iowa again for a wedding. My
elderly parents rode with us. He and I would likely make the 7 hour trip with
only a quick stop for gas. But my parents needed a little longer break so we stopped
for gas and a sit-down meal, joking that we had to “walk the parents.” They
thought that was funny too.
Going to Iowa
with my parents is fun. They point out landmarks and memories that we would not
know to look for. They showed us where my dear Uncle James and Aunt Nelly are
buried – a small, out of the way country cemetery. They pointed out where the
old school house used to stand near my Grandpa’s farm. In short, they helped me
remember things I had long since forgotten.
And that in
itself is interesting because my Dad has dementia. There is not much he
remembers these days. But he remembered ‘home.’ At least to some extent.
The most
precious moment of the trip however was not what I expected. I expected it to
be the wedding which was very precious. I couldn’t get through it
without tears. But the most precious time was watching my Dad with his brother.
Dad’s brother,
Uncle Hank, lives in a nursing home. It is actually a beautiful place. Very
clean. Nicely kept. No smells. He is 92 years old and while he is quite deaf,
his mind is still fairly sharp, unlike my Dad’s.
My mom had to
wake my uncle up from a nap. Perhaps because he was still groggy, or perhaps
because he didn’t expect to see my Dad and Mom in Iowa, he did not immediately
recognize my Dad. But that was only for a minute. Soon he and Dad were chatting
away and Dad looked like Dad before dementia.
The rest of
us left them alone to enjoy each other’s company. After about ½ hour, it was
time for us to leave. We re-entered the room where they sat and told them it
was time to go. My Dad got up and turned to Uncle Hank to say good-bye. Uncle
Hank held out his hand to my Dad and tenderly said to his younger brother, “the
Lord bless you, Wilbur.” Still holding my uncle’s hand my Dad said, “the Lord
bless you too, Hank.”
It was as if
the world stopped at that moment. I felt like I had witnessed something that
went beyond words. Two old men, both deeply committed Christians, saying
good-bye, perhaps realizing that they may not see each other again in the
flesh. And rather than saying good-bye,
or even ‘I love you’ – words so often used tritely nowadays – they bless each
other.
The Celts
speak of ‘thin places,’ places where the veil between heaven and earth becomes penetrable,
and one can glimpse of glory of God. That little room in the nursing home on
that cold November day was such a place. And I had been blessed to see it.
