For the Holy Thursday service last month, my church had a Living
Last Supper, a live rendition of Da Vinci’s painting. Mom and Dad often come to
special programs with me, so I told Mom about the services that week. I knew
the Thursday service was dicey because she is uncomfortable going to the front
of the church for communion instead of taking it seated. I can understand that.
It took me a little while to get used to it when I started attending a
Methodist church during college. It turned out she had a meeting that night, so
I offered to take Dad with me.
We went to dinner first, just a little burger place a few
minutes from home. I never know how dinner—or anything else—is going to work
with him since I don’t know what will actually go wrong or that he will
interpret as going wrong and how he will react to it. We split a burger. It was
cooked right. The fries were not as crisp as we like, but he didn’t seem to
notice. The onion rings were excellent, and we did not fight over who got the
last one (me!).
Throughout dinner, I was debating on when to make a pit
stop. This is one of the last issues I thought I’d face with my dad, at least
at our ages. Stay with me here. No, he doesn’t need help in the bathroom yet,
but we have a bit of a timing problem if there’s only one woman along, and he
finishes first because Mom or I might not come out first. By the time he’s done, he may or may not remember that one of us
will be waiting for him outside the restrooms. So far, he has not wandered off,
but I always worry that he will. Add to the mix that at church, the men’s room
is across the foyer—out of sight almost because of the architecture—from the
women’s, and he is not familiar with the building although he's been there many times. I still like the restrooms there better than at the restaurant, so I
decided to wait to get there and prayed as I drove that someone would be able
to help me.
I pointed Dad toward his door, and as I turned to walk to
mine, I saw a friend, also Terry, sitting and talking with friends within sight
of the restroom. I explained the situation to him, identified Dad, and asked
him to snag him if I wasn’t out yet. He said, “No problem. There’s also about
ten ‘disciples’ in there right now. No telling what’s going on. I’ll watch for
him and catch him if he comes out.” This was one of those situations where I
had thought how ridiculous it was to pray for something as small, not to
mention weird, as someone to take care of Dad while I was indisposed, but what
a great answer God gave. It was even better when I thanked Terry the next time
I saw him, and he told me that anytime I needed someone to watch after Dad,
just let him know. And he meant it. That kind of support is invaluable.
We picked a seat near the front of the worship center so we
could see well. I could handle needing to lean a little to see or just have a
slightly obstructed view, but that’s another of those little pieces that I don’t
know how Dad will react to it. He was thoroughly engaged, as was I, as the men
held frozen poses—like the live mannequins do at stores—for more than thirty
minutes other than the couple of minutes as each spoke. It was amazing. Most of
them never moved a muscle we saw. Also amazing was that as we drove home and
talked about it, he remembered how they had stayed still.
I was enjoying the performance, but in the back of my mind
was how communion was going to be. Dad grew up Methodist, so I knew he was used
to the style, but I wasn’t sure how he would react if a woman served the bread
or cup. I was also prepared to stay seated if he preferred not to go. When the
usher came to our row, I looked at him, and he rose, so I led the way. Rather
than whisper instructions to him, I just turned slightly so he could see how I
cupped my hands to take the bread, and then I waited for him to look before I
dipped mine in the cup. He had zero problem. Not even with the lady who had the
bread.
When there’s room at the communion rail, I usually go kneel
to pray. It was strange when I started doing it twenty-five years ago because I
had always taken communion while seated. At first, I knelt because everyone
else was, but soon I enjoyed doing it. I hadn’t discussed it with Dad earlier
since he wouldn’t have remembered by the time we got in the situation, so as we
stepped away from those serving communion, I simply motioned to the rail. He
understood exactly what I meant, and we knelt together. I’ve shared communion
with him hundreds of times and prayed thousands of times, but that was the
first time I have ever knelt beside him and prayed. The wave of emotion was not
something I had anticipated and was almost a distraction from why we were
there. It wasn’t any sort of bonding, at least that’s not how I would label it,
and yet it is something that will stay with me forever. In those minutes of
communing with God, who never changes, my dad, who is changing sometimes daily,
was totally normal.
We talked about the performance a little as we headed to his
house, and then we had root beer floats with Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer (in
Coca-Cola glasses, no less). I forget how good that brand is, which is probably
best, as I would drink far too much of it. We yacked about nothing in
particular as we enjoyed the floats at the kitchen table. Then he got a bit
jealous as I slurped the little bit of mine that remained through my straw, as
loudly as I could, of course. I told him he
could have a straw, but no, he had
declined. And slurped the last of the drops with enough suction to make my head
swim. It was worth it when he made a pathetic face and then laughed.
Mom and I got one more gift out of the evening. I had gone
home shortly before she was due back. When she came in, Dad was watching
television, but she asked how the program had been. Instead of asking her, “What
program?” he said, “It was good.” She told me that when I saw them Friday
night, and I was stunned. Then, she said that he had brought up the program
that morning and told her a little about it. He does not remember recent events
like that. I had no words. I still don’t. But it makes me smile when I think of
it.
