Eastertide in Prattville, Alabama

It was a long gray weekend punctuated by bright flashes of color. Michael’s dad, ninety six years old, had a stroke and we drove to Alabama to see him. There was some paralysis and his speech was affected. It was another loss of independence and selfhood for this man who is slipping away, dying by inches. He lives in a sixteen resident home in Prattville, Alabama, Autumn Place. It is called an assisted living home, though once you become a resident, they will try to keep you even when you are no longer able to keep yourself.
We walked in to the great room to the smell of barbequed chicken and potato salad. Lunch was being cooked and the smell was wonderful. The African American women who care for the residents have big hearts and tender hands. There is laughter and love served up in the midst of tears and sadness. When we last visited, I got a hankering for a pedicure. B.J. showed me her painted decorated nails and sent me to her nail technician. I didn’t get the bling that B.J. had on her nails but I did talk Michael into a pedicure. We laugh a lot, hug a lot, eat together and help clean up the kitchen after meals. It is holy ground where the People of God care for one another.
B.J. was helping H.O. drink some water as he sat in the recliner. He spends his days now out in the great room so they can keep an eye on him. He needs help to stand and can no longer use his walker. A wheelchair moves him back and forth. B.J. leaned over and whispered, “I know we aren’t supposed to get too attached but I love this old man. He never complains and he always calls me by my name.” During lunch I played the piano... old hymns and popular songs from the forties and fifties. Mr. Hudson, ninety eight years old, sat at his table while I played, long after he had finished eating. Michael met with the Hospice nurses and social worker arranging care for this last part of the journey. We sat with H.O. and told “remember when” stories until he dropped off to sleep.
Then we went to the Prattville funeral home to begin preparation for H.O.’s final church service. The two women there, one the owner, called us into the office where they had their shoes off recuperating from a funeral and burial that afternoon. We sat and talked, establishing our “Who are your people” and “Where did you come from’s” as we settled in. No surprise to us... H.O. had performed the wedding ceremony for the daughter of one of those women and met the other one at an AARP meeting. She still had his business card. No longer strangers in a strange land... we were known and cared for.
Ann and H.O. loved to eat out. One of our traditions in Prattville has been to eat at the Catfish House on Saturday night then drive around town and country. The Catfish House has a large plain wooden exterior, a graveled parking lot and is next to a lake on the road between Prattville and Millbrook. Inside, the walls are hung with concrete memories of life lived long ago. Farm tools, jars of marbles, cans of baking soda, baby buggies and old pictures provide a visual trip down memory lane. Fish camps like this are all over the south and serve as gathering places for the community. Folks come in and see other folks they know or kin. Along with wonderful seafood, they serve up relationship and connection. Saturday night we found the waitress who served H.O. when he was still mobile and independent, who has served us when we have come with him, and told her of his stroke. She will pass the word along to others. We ordered some catfish, hush puppies, white beans and slaw to take to H.O. so he could have a taste of home.
The regular visitors came. One man comes everyday to visit his daughter’s grandfather-in-law. He also visits and prays with H.O. Another man comes every Saturday to do Bible study and lead singing. Occasionally he brings his horn and plays. He, too, always comes to speak to H.O. Two surprise visitors came this weekend. One, a man who used to work at the Baptist Building in Montgomery, still has the letter H.O. wrote encouraging him to go to college and seminary. I suspect H.O. did for him what he did for many such young people, men and women alike, found some money to go along with the words. Another visitor, a former parishioner and friend, Willadean, was driven down from Birmingham by a friend, as her eighty third birthday present. She and Michael sat and told stories, laughed while H.O. listened in-between naps.
A long gray weekend spent walking through the valley of shadows was lightened by the presence of God in the people of God at Autumn Place and Prattville, Alabama. Jesus’s words in the Gospel of John came true for me this weekend. “Truly I say unto to you... you will be sorrowful but your sorrow will turn to joy.” Joy and sorrow were all wrapped around each other this weekend, flowing into the river of life surrounded by gratitude for all that has been and all that is yet to come. Even in our loneliness and sorrows, we are never alone. God With Us in the hearts and hands of strangers who are unknown kin people, waits to turn our griefs to gladness and our hearts towards home. Selah.