Guilt and Grace on I-85

Every day of my life I have felt guilty about something and yesterday was no exception. We had been to Montgomery, Alabama to visit Michael’s ninety four year old father. His journal had been published by the Alabama Baptist Historical Society and a book signing was scheduled for Friday. Michael, his brother from Texas, the two wives, the oldest grandchild, the surviving sister with three of her children and spouses represented the family. Over 100 people came to the book signing. For a man who has no living contemporaries, only remembered by those who were younger and worked with him, that was an affirmation of his life from our perspective.
The weekend was full of memories shared with laughter, stories told never heard before, moments of gentle sadness, recognition of painful changes in the father/brother/uncle/friend who was the reason for our gathering. The man we knew has been covered over by the shroud of dementia. His eyes now mirror confusion and loss not connection and presence. There was also celebration. This old, confused man had a life full of meaningful work, important work that changed the lives of many black and white people in his home state of Alabama. Black girls and boys went to seminary because he sent them. He preached in more black churches than white ones. He preached the dedication sermon for the new stained glass window in the church that was bombed where little girls were killed. He and Ann moved in a culture foreign to them in the beginning and found gracious hospitality that echoed their own spirits.
And yet... As the time for our leaving drew near, the guilt trip began, conducted masterfully by this old man. He spoke of how hard it was to be old, unwanted, lonely, a left-over. He is still searching for a companion, someone to share his life with, someone to live with. He can’t breathe easily and he has begun to fall when he stands up and walks. The last two hours of our visit were unbearably sad and painful. All that he says is true and untrue at the same time. He does feel lonely but he no longer calls friends and family as he did all his life. Often when the phone rings now, he might not answer it. After friends and family visit or call, he cannot remember their visits and calls. His loneliness is in a place that cannot be reached, cannot be soothed, cannot be eased. No matter, we felt immensely guilty anyway. The heart, while informed by the head, plays by its own rules and our hearts felt so guilty driving away.
The first few hours driving home were quiet, filled with sad, angry, guilty feelings. Then the phone call came. Our friends were driving home from a wedding in Tennessee on I-85. We checked our maps and met at a Wendy’s for sweet tea and communion. All of us have parents at the end of life. We speak the same language, love and guilt. As we sat at that tacky little plastic table in Newnan, Georgia, drinking our tea, telling our stories, Grace joined us and helped us forgive ourselves, forgive our parents, forgive God for not making death easier. This kind of forgiveness is hard won and can only come in the community of those who are struggling as we are, are willing to share their own painful places, hear our sighs without words and offer their shoulders to lean on. All four of us went to church yesterday at Wendy’s and worshiped... praise, confession, forgiveness, the Word among us, communion, a benediction... everything that was needed was provided. Serendipity? No. The grace of God, the Holy Spirit, the arms of Jesus, the Balm in Gilead were made available for us, for our souls sakes. All we had to do was show up and wait and offer ourselves as living sacrifices for each other. I am surrounded by guilt and grace and it is more than enough. Thanks be to God.