She entrusted me with her greatest treasure.  I, a young bride, only married a few months.  Her, with a head of gray hair, married for fifty-five years and counting.  Her knight in shining armor, once so strong and supple, had fallen.  He was now confined to his bed, helpless and unable to care for the ones he loved most, unable to care for himself.  Left with slaying the dragon and bringing home the bread by herself, she went to work at a local historical farm in Piqua, Ohio, where she ran the gift shop, piped tunes on her penny whistle pocket flute, entertained groups of rowdy school children, and gave guided tours of the canal.  And through the contact of a mutual elderly friend, I found myself in her home caring for her invalid husband.

Her name is Delores, but her friends called her De.  His name was Harold, but his friends called him Cutsy.  I called them privileged.  They made it through tough times with their marriage in tack; through job changes, disappointments, childlessness, Agent Orange and the Vietnam War.  But then came a season of sickness.  Cutsy fell ill, and never fully recovered.

Thus, a year of mornings found me sitting by Cutsy’s bedside, feeding him corn pudding through lips that could hardly open and close, waiting for the afternoon clock to strike three. Then, in she would come, my plucky friend De, to smile at her broken lover, give me an appreciative word, and pour out the rest of her evening and life as a sacrifice to the “for better or for worse.”   Can you help but love her?

But there was no happy ending.  Life wore Cutsy out.  His heart grew weaker until it could not beat again.  Not even for De, and in a breathe, Cutsy was gone.  Yes, death is so inconvenient.  So much left to say.  So much left to share.   A few short years late, my spunky De was knocked down by a stroke.  Only this time, I was a mother of five little ones and I couldn’t sit beside her chair like I did for her beloved.

I grew very discouraged after a series of visits to with her in the last year and a half.  The pluck and the zest were stripped away and she would sit and weep…mourning the growing list of losses that seemed determined to cripple her.  Still mourning the loss of her husband, she now mourned the loss of relationship with her one adopted child, the loss of her son-in-law and granddaughter ~both of whom died tragically~ , the loss of finances, the loss of her strength and independence, the loss of her quick mind, and eventually the loss of her home.  What can one say in the face of such destitution?  So I would hold her hand and pray, read her psalms and pray, and she would say thank you.  But always the conversation would return to her inability to feel the peace and the love of God and His son, Jesus.   Over time, I grew worried, concerned.  With her spiritual history of going to church, saying the sinner’s prayer, and doing many good deeds…yet never remembering the experience of His presence…could this mean what I hoped it did not?

One visit this summer, while I was putting some food in her refrigerator, trying to declutter, and to brush away cobwebs and grease at the same time…I saw a paper yellowed with age taped to the wall and barely able to be seen behind a row of dusty appliances.  There was a title on the page called “The Colors of My Cross”.  Below was a beautiful poem, written by my Dee, and it filled my heart with light.  It could only have been written by experience.

Recently, out of necessity, Dee had to move to an assisted living complex.  I worry about her there.  Will she find friends?  Will they love her clever little dog, Chum?  Will they watch him do tricks for a doggy biscuit?   Will they find out she was a gifted school teacher, an artist of stained glass, an award winning cherry pie baker?  Do they know she loved to sing in the Choir?  That she drove a car the color of the pies that she baked?  That she put on puppet shows for handicapped children?   Will they find out about the twin brothers she never knew who died a few hours after being born?  Will they take the time to listen to her funny jokes?  Will they hold her hand when sorrow overwhelms her?  Oh Lord, don’t let them miss one of the greatest blessings life could offer them ~ the friendship of Delores Minnich.