God Lives in Memory Care

"I'm distressed," Violet* told me.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because this is all so beautiful … and then it goes away."

This reflection came during one of my conversations at a senior living center, where Violet lived with memory loss. I was blessed to spend six months training as a chaplain at Violet's senior living center and found myself constantly drawn toward the residents in the memory care unit. As they navigated Alzheimer's and other forms of memory loss, they shared fundamental insights about time and the sacred.

Time and the sacred are inherently linked in Hebrew. The four letters in God's name (י yud, ה hey, ו vav, and ה hey ) are the same letters we find in words like "was" (הָיָה hayah), "being" (הֲוָיָה havayah), and "will be" (יִהְיֶה yihyeh). God is, was, and will be ... all at once. God is the ultimate verb. The God that is within and beyond time, the timeless and time-full Spirit, is what I found in memory care.

God lives in the afternoon I spent sitting in the Memory Care courtyard with three residents, singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" together and dancing the can-can. One of the residents tapped his feet and sat in his chair with his eyes closed, the dancing coming from deep within. The other residents waved their arms and smiled with sunshine radiating from their eyes. It was like peering into a sacred kaleidoscope of their ages from the present moment all the way back to the year 1939, when Dorothy first sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in "The Wizard of Oz."

God lives in the interaction I had with a resident I had just met who said, "We've known each other for a long time - we just don't get to see each other that often because we live apart." Margaret* said this to me after describing how she felt trapped and needed her parents to take her home. Eventually, as I asked Margaret to tell me about her childhood home, Margaret softened. Although Alzheimer's made it difficult for Margaret to remember if she was an adult or a child, or if her parents were dead or alive, she knew with certainty that she wanted to return to the place where she felt loved and comfortable. Her reminiscing brought her back there in spirit. I think her words were addressed not to me, but to the Divine Place of love and comfort. That Place was, is, and will always be there for her. 

God lives in a resident asking me, "Are you the same age as I am?" I said, "Not quite…" and she said, "Well, I'll go back!" Although she was in her 80s, she often referred to herself as a young woman. She wasn't upset to hear that she and I weren't the same age; instead, she responded playfully, as if winking at the circle of life. 

God lives in the resident who looked at pictures of her and her brother visiting their mother's grave and suddenly said, "My mother is alive and well, and she's the best mother I ever had." Part of Evelyn* must have recognized that the picture implied her mother's death. Rather than speaking about her mother in the past tense, though, she depicted her mother as vividly present - alive and well. When it comes to memory loss, short-term memory is the first to fade; however, long-term memories of key family members can accompany us forever. Evelyn's love for her mother outlived her loss.

God lives in the response a resident gave when the music therapist asked, "Who is someone you lean on during tough times?" The resident replied, "Let it be." Because the resident almost never spoke, I thought at first that his response was a coincidence. Then, I wondered, What would it mean to truly lean on someone whose name is Let-it-be/ Let-it-have-been/ Let-it-become? What would it mean to visit memory care and let it be without trying to tell a resident that her mom is dead, that we're not at all the same age, or that we haven't known each other for a long time?

In memory care, and pastoral care, I have learned to lean on a God that is both within and beyond time. I walk alongside the residents as time spirals and morphs with every word. I hear about the residents' parents, who are dead and yet so alive. I roll to the beginning of each conversational loop as if I'm rolling to the beginning of a Torah, familiar with the words but ready to learn something new every time. I feel that something inside of us has known each other for eternity. And I know, with all my soul, that God lives in memory care .

*All names have been changed to protect residents' anonymity.