They said she was "Christmas crazy,"
the woman in 107
(on the left at the end of the hall).
"She speaks with the baby Jesus,"
said the nurse, addressing the new chaplain.
"It happens year 'round,
but especially during the holidays.
She no longer knows her family,
but she stays connected to that child."
He glanced at the nurse,
looking for any evidence of sarcasm or dismissiveness,
but found none.
----
He met 107 at the end of the next day
as he made his way, room-by-room,
through the facility,
getting to know the residents.
He saved her for last;
of all the briefings he'd received from the nurse,
#107's intrigued him the most.
It was after dinner, after dark,
and she sat in her room with the lights out,
facing the room's single window.
It faced the front lawn of the building,
and the home's nativity display
sat in the snow about 20 feet from her,
its plastic, half-sized figures
illuminated from within.
He observed that all she could see
were their backsides,
except for the baby Jesus,
who lay peacefully in the manger,
facing his parents,
which meant facing her,
his chubby arms reaching to all of them.
He noted with surprise
that she was younger then he
by a good ten years.
He then noted her smile;
even in the dim light from the figures outside,
a remarkable smile--
open, trusting, welcoming.
"He comes to see me,
but only when I'm alone,"
she said.
"Who's that?"
he asked.
"The Christ child, there..."
she pointed.
"Then he runs back
when someone interrupts us."
"Did I interrupt you?"
"Yes, but that's okay.
He'll come back after you leave."
"What do you talk about?"
"Love,
and swaddling clothes,
and his mother and father,
and my mother and father,
and hope and promises
and the things that hurt us."
She paused and turned,
washing him with that smile,
"and love, of course...
and love."
----
In the days that followed--
the two weeks leading up to Christmas Day--
the staff observed with amusement
the inordinate amount of time
the new chaplain spent in room 107
with the woman who was Christmas crazy.
And throughout that time,
he repeatedly noted
how Alzheimer's patients
struggle to keep
their slowly draining minds
full,
while he,
in his daily meditation practice,
struggled to keep his mind
empty.
They fear the emptiness
that he longs for,
wanting to make room for the voice of God--
a visit from the baby Jesus.
Text and image © 2016 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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