A Day of Rest at the Rest Home

Yesterday morning, I was invited to speak in the sacrament meeting of one of the two care center branches our ward supports. I've been periodically visiting these two branches ever since I was a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. My mom spent a week at the South Davis Community Hospital last year while recupertaing and rehabbing from her car accident. And my brother Steve, on numerous occasions, also used to gather groups of people to visit the residents and sing hymns of their choosing on Sunday afternoons. I got to tag along on more than one of these occasions, and I always enjoyed the opportunity to take part.

It is always a no-brainer to accept the invitation to go to the care center branches. Whenever I visit one or both, I always come away with a renewed sense of humility at the challenges one can face in life. The people who live there are not necessarily older people who can no longer care for themselves at home; some of them are young adults or children who have been through life-altering injuries or sicknesses and, likewise, need constant care. They have suffered and are suffering through things that I can only imagine.

Perhaps that is why the Spirit is always so strong whenever I get the chance to go to one of these meetings. Where there is great suffering, and also great loneliness, there is also a great need for lifting the hands that hang low; and I guess that's where those who serve at the branches (and where we who visit) come in.

In spite of their challenges, the residents are always glad to see me and always have smiles on their faces. True, there are always a few who remain asleep for the bulk of the meeting, but it's usually those who are getting some badly needed rest. Most people tend to pay better attention to me, as a speaker, than most anywhere else I've stood at a pulpit and given a talk.

At yesterday's South Davis Community Hospital Branch meeting (the Rocky Mountain Care Center is the other one), I was erroneously introduced to the congregation as Don Plowman, which made me wonder for a moment if they confused me with the head of a mafia family or a Latin American landlord. I got to share the stand with a recently returned missionary from Indonesia, who delivered an inspring talk about some of his experiences in that faraway land. One of my former Institute instructors is now in the branch presidency, and I got to speak with him for a few minutes, too.

The thing that stuck with me the most, however, occurred as the sacrament was being passed. An elderly sister, who was obviously suffering with dementia or some other kind of memory-related issue, began to speak very loudly to the deacon who brought her the bread and the water. This would be a problem or a distraction in most any ward or branch of the Church, except she wasn't obnoxious or irreverent about it, even though she may not have been holding all 52 cards in her deck. She simply repeated the words I love you again and again.

Right back at you, sister.