I went to speak to about death

I went to speak to about death to people confined to a nursing home but ended-up speaking about life and the eternity of the human spirit. I told them they are all saints and called them by name: Saint Audrey, Saint Bob, Saint Betty, Saint Bert. They giggled. I did not. I was serious. By what other name than “saint” could I call these persons who have kept on loving the world when the world did not reciprocate; who kept on giving when the gratitude for having done so was nil; who kept on sacrificing even when they felt forsaken or ignored by their family, friends or country. These gritty, gentle, adult-diaper-clad saints carry my faith and hope for me when I stumble in puddles (oceans?) of doubt, anger and fatigue. Every time I bring a church service to these tuck-aways who are sequestered from society for the “crimes” of age, illness and presumed uselessness ~ I leave buoyed by the living waters of their humble and awesome love. Life is weird. God is good. And I am grateful for my aged friends and teachers.

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