Forget Not

Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits.
Ps. 103:2

The florescent lights in the nursing home cafeteria buzzed and flickered. Sleigh Ride or Holly Jolly Christmas or some other such jingle played in the background. Dishes clattered as the girl in blue scrubs slid leftover beef stroganoff and crumpled napkins and half eaten dinner rolls and bits of jello-salads into her bin. And my dear old friend, Jon, slumped in his wheel chair, picked at the table cloth, and muttered something I could barely make out. Work to do. Mother is at home. Put that over here.

We were there to offer him the sacrament--the body and blood of our Lord. But we didn't know how it would go. Before arriving, I had been optimistic. But I was becoming less and less sure by the minute. Jon seemed rather baffled by the three men sitting before him. He couldn't remember the name of his son--never mind his pastor and his elder. When I tried to explained that we were there to celebrate communion and set a small crystal tray of cubed bread on the table, Jon reached for one and put it into his mouth--as if it were just some leftover morsel from his lunch that he hadn't gotten to yet.

As Jon nibbled on his bread, I began to think that it was all a silly idea--the old form from the back of the Psalter Hymnal, the little cup of juice, the zig-zagging conversation. What good would it be? How could these things be meaningful for a man who couldn't even remember that his wife of seventy-some years had been dead for months?

I had my doubts. But even so, I began to read my photocopied notes. And as I did, something changed in Jon.

As I went through the old form--the institution from 1 Corinthians, the explanation of what was being proclaimed and remembered, the prayer for the blessing of the Holy Spirit--Jon became suddenly aware. He interrupted--only occasionally--to offer the reference of the scripture passage, or to request a favorite Psalm (139). When we got to the Lord's prayer he said every last phrase--clearly. When it came time to say the words--Take, eat, remember and believe--Jon held on to his bread and juice until the appropriate moment. And then offered his thanks. To me, perhaps. But mostly, I believe, to Christ.

After we had swallowed our bread and sipped our juice, I began to read the traditional thanksgiving Psalm--103. It didn't take long--two verses--before the words caught in my throat and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. Praise the Lord, says the Psalmist, and forget not all his benefits. When I read those words, I nearly lost it--right there in the nursing home cafeteria. I nearly lost it because I knew that of all the things that Jon has forgotten--the name of his son, the place he attended church for ninety (or more) years, the death of his wife, what year he was living in--Jon has not forgotten Christ and all his benefits. He was able to take, eat, remember, and believe. Dementia has taken so very much from him--but by God's grace, it hasn't taken that.

Praise the Lord, oh my soul. Praise the Lord.