There is an easy tie to the title of this inspirational piece and the theme of God’s love. The idea came to me as I was reading a delightful little essay by Marion Amberg. I don’t know Amberg, but I have learned that she lives in Santa Fe and is a freelance journalist. She writes well and told the story of assisting an old Japanese-American woman for a couple years in what I take was a nursing home setting. The title of Amberg’s piece was revealing: “God is love, and God’s face was looking at me for two years.” By sharing some of the story, I share the spiritual insight contained in the story. It is a good one.
Amberg opens her reflections in a wonderful way to set up the story. She says, “You never know when love will find you. I didn't expect a two-year love affair when I accepted a caregiver assignment with Amy, a 92-year-old Japanese lady in a senior living home. My job was easy: accompany Amy to the dining room for breakfast and dinner and tuck her into bed at night.” In my ministry I have been to nursing homes countless times. And I have had caregiving assignments with parents and friends. It was easy to get the picture.
I have also had my share of interaction with Alzheimer’s. Slowly it erodes the person who used to be, often changing the personality in the process. This was true for Amy, but somehow there was a core self (or maybe even soul) that seemed not to change. Maybe this is how I can understand the “true self” concept that Thomas Merton and so many others emphasize. I liked learning about Amy as Amberg develops the story.
Like many Japanese-Americans, Amy had been imprisoned in a camp during WW II. I know the first time I heard about this action, I could not believe it. I also had a friend---a Quaker---who was Japanese-American who shared with me her experiences of just such a camp. She had been a teenager when she was imprisoned with her parents. I was aghast when I heard the details. It made me think about my country in new ways. But Amy came through her experience and made the most of her life. And now she was 92 and losing her “marbles,” as some of the other folks in the facility put it.
Amberg sets us up for the real story when she tells us, “Amy suffered from Alzheimer's. Her mind was diseased, but her soul was whole and full of love.” And so the real story is not the Alzheimer’s, but love. Let’s follow that love story. Amberg narrates, “When she first saw me, she burst into song. ‘I love you ... for sentimental reasons.’ She never missed a beat of Nat King Cole's 1946 hit. ‘I hope you do believe me,’ she sang on, ‘I'll give you my heart.’” That’s when I first began to get it. Love is really about giving your heart. It’s simple and it’s profound.
Amberg is clever when she describes the environment of the place. For example, she observes, “Many residents snickered behind Amy's back or rolled their eyes. Some pretended not to see or hear her. They still had their ‘marbles,’ after all.” When I read that, I winced. Too often, I am sad to say, I have been part of this chorus. How many times when I was young and strong, I was also wrong. It is easy to make fun of people. This is the antithesis of love. I think Amy was a lover because she was soulful. I hope I am learning to be soulful.
Amberg is a realist. In spite of the nice story developing about Amy, Amberg confesses that Alzheimer’s inevitably will do its work. Amy was not spared. For example, we learn that “…Alzheimer's was slowly ravaging Amy's brain, and she suffered from bouts of depression and sometimes refused to get out of bed.” I smiled when Amberg uses the verb, “bark,” to describe Amy’s responses sometime. I certainly have “barked” at people---often the ones I most care about.
At her deepest, however, Amy was love. At least, that is how Amberg tells it. She says, “Amy loved everybody. And not just for sentimental reasons. Her love was pure.” How did she get to that pure love? I don’t know and Amberg does not tell that part of the story. I am sure Amy had to learn it. All of us have the capacity for pure love, but it has to be nurtured and practiced.
Amy got worse and finally had to move to full-time care. As Amberg bid her goodbye the last time, Amy responded with more song: “she beamed. ‘I love you ... forever and ever.’” Amberg’s response is poignant. She notes, “My heart stopped. I heard new words but my soul saw one ancient truth. Why didn't I see it sooner? God is love, and God's face has been looking at me for two years.”
One last time, Amberg says to Amy, “’I love you, Amy,’ I whispered, closing the door behind me. ‘I hope you do believe me. I've given you my heart.’” There is the phrase again. I give you my heart. That is love. When we learn about love, we are learning about love. And when we learn about God, inevitably we are learning about love. And when we have learned about love, there is only one thing we can do.
We give away our heart.
Amberg opens her reflections in a wonderful way to set up the story. She says, “You never know when love will find you. I didn't expect a two-year love affair when I accepted a caregiver assignment with Amy, a 92-year-old Japanese lady in a senior living home. My job was easy: accompany Amy to the dining room for breakfast and dinner and tuck her into bed at night.” In my ministry I have been to nursing homes countless times. And I have had caregiving assignments with parents and friends. It was easy to get the picture.
I have also had my share of interaction with Alzheimer’s. Slowly it erodes the person who used to be, often changing the personality in the process. This was true for Amy, but somehow there was a core self (or maybe even soul) that seemed not to change. Maybe this is how I can understand the “true self” concept that Thomas Merton and so many others emphasize. I liked learning about Amy as Amberg develops the story.
Like many Japanese-Americans, Amy had been imprisoned in a camp during WW II. I know the first time I heard about this action, I could not believe it. I also had a friend---a Quaker---who was Japanese-American who shared with me her experiences of just such a camp. She had been a teenager when she was imprisoned with her parents. I was aghast when I heard the details. It made me think about my country in new ways. But Amy came through her experience and made the most of her life. And now she was 92 and losing her “marbles,” as some of the other folks in the facility put it.
Amberg sets us up for the real story when she tells us, “Amy suffered from Alzheimer's. Her mind was diseased, but her soul was whole and full of love.” And so the real story is not the Alzheimer’s, but love. Let’s follow that love story. Amberg narrates, “When she first saw me, she burst into song. ‘I love you ... for sentimental reasons.’ She never missed a beat of Nat King Cole's 1946 hit. ‘I hope you do believe me,’ she sang on, ‘I'll give you my heart.’” That’s when I first began to get it. Love is really about giving your heart. It’s simple and it’s profound.
Amberg is clever when she describes the environment of the place. For example, she observes, “Many residents snickered behind Amy's back or rolled their eyes. Some pretended not to see or hear her. They still had their ‘marbles,’ after all.” When I read that, I winced. Too often, I am sad to say, I have been part of this chorus. How many times when I was young and strong, I was also wrong. It is easy to make fun of people. This is the antithesis of love. I think Amy was a lover because she was soulful. I hope I am learning to be soulful.
Amberg is a realist. In spite of the nice story developing about Amy, Amberg confesses that Alzheimer’s inevitably will do its work. Amy was not spared. For example, we learn that “…Alzheimer's was slowly ravaging Amy's brain, and she suffered from bouts of depression and sometimes refused to get out of bed.” I smiled when Amberg uses the verb, “bark,” to describe Amy’s responses sometime. I certainly have “barked” at people---often the ones I most care about.
At her deepest, however, Amy was love. At least, that is how Amberg tells it. She says, “Amy loved everybody. And not just for sentimental reasons. Her love was pure.” How did she get to that pure love? I don’t know and Amberg does not tell that part of the story. I am sure Amy had to learn it. All of us have the capacity for pure love, but it has to be nurtured and practiced.
Amy got worse and finally had to move to full-time care. As Amberg bid her goodbye the last time, Amy responded with more song: “she beamed. ‘I love you ... forever and ever.’” Amberg’s response is poignant. She notes, “My heart stopped. I heard new words but my soul saw one ancient truth. Why didn't I see it sooner? God is love, and God's face has been looking at me for two years.”
One last time, Amberg says to Amy, “’I love you, Amy,’ I whispered, closing the door behind me. ‘I hope you do believe me. I've given you my heart.’” There is the phrase again. I give you my heart. That is love. When we learn about love, we are learning about love. And when we learn about God, inevitably we are learning about love. And when we have learned about love, there is only one thing we can do.
We give away our heart.
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