God sends His gifts of grace in surprising ways.
by Susanna Burkett Chenoweth
Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tunes without the words –
And never stops — at all.
— Emily Dickinson
I paused in Mom’s doorway, softly reciting a scripture verse: “I can do all [things] through him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:13). Strengthen me, Father. Help me help Mom.
Seconds later, making myself smile, I entered her room.
Sleepy day
“Good morning, Mom!” Sitting on Mom’s bed, I faced her. “Guess what?”
Mom’s face turned toward me, frowning, but her eyes were closed. I patted her shoulder.
“Today is the first day of spring.”
Mom made a sound, so I felt that she heard me. With her progressing dementia, I never knew for sure. But this I did know. Today was not a perky day. Her tiny form slumped in her seat. Nope. Today was one of her sleepy days.
Perky days
Her perky days were fun. Fully awake, Mom’s personality shone through the darkness of her disease. I recognized the mom she once was. Spunky, mischievous, and sassy!
As we tended her, she’d make us laugh. A joke here. A snarky reply there. In her day, Mom was quite the entertainer. But no, today she was offstage . . . somewhere else.
Busy hands
Reaching out, I grasped her left hand, which dangled over the wheelchair armrest. Gently, I placed it on her lap. As I smoothed the delicate skin of her gnarled, nearly ninety-year-old fingers, memories flooded me.
Busy hands they’d been. Planted gardens, canned produce, wiped noses and tears from her four children’s faces. Sewed quilts and clothing, mowed yards, filled bird feeders. . . .
She’d been a hard-working mama. My three brothers and I kept her busy!
Memories
Mom had found ways to control our high energy. She loved the outdoors, so we hiked, camped, explored. I’d often heard her say, “I like animals, birds, and plants better than people!”
Mama, usually blunt, spoke her truth. But we’d had fun. I miss your attitude, Mom. Your voice. . . .
“It’s spring! The birds are migrating back. Maybe we’ll spy some on your bird feeders. You think?” What are you thinking, Mom?
No response. I sighed.
Friendly exchange
A bit later, I carefully wheeled Mom over her door’s threshold, nearly bumping into Betty. Ninety-six years old, a sturdy woman, she sat in her scooter sporting her usual big smile. Her trademark butterfly clip fluttered in her silky white hair.
“Sorry, Betty, I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s okay, honey. No harm done.”
She touched Mom’s arm. “How’s Janie doing today?”
Mom mumbled, but her eyes remained closed.
Betty looked at me. “She’s been awfully sleepy. Didn’t eat much for breakfast, they said.”
“Thanks. Hopefully, she’ll eat lunch for me.” I pushed Mom’s chair forward.
Beautiful birds
“I was admiring Jane’s beautiful birds.”
“Mom’s birds?”
“Yes.” Betty pointed into Mom’s room. “When Janie’s door is open, I can see them from my bed. They’re all so beautiful, but I think I like the bluebird best.”
Ah! Jon’s stained-glass birds.
Troubled brother
Mom had three glass birds suction-cupped to her window. A cardinal, a goldfinch, and a bluebird. Jon, my kid brother, had created them. In practically everything he attempted, he excelled. He was a carpenter, furniture maker, nature photographer, kayak builder, and explorer. Jon was gifted, but depression plagued him.
During his active life, Jon had suffered multiple concussions. He had received treatment for depression. Just as I didn’t blame Mom for her brain disease of dementia, neither did I blame Jon for his bruised brain and resulting illness.
Family support
But when Jon’s life ended five years earlier from suicide, everything became unreal. He left behind a grieving family. His stunned wife was unable to fully parent their three teenagers, so my husband and I stepped into that role.
We drove them to school activities, listened to them, shared memories of their dad, and tried to provide comfort. Our two nieces and nephew needed support. We did our best to give it.
Favorite bird
And there were Mom’s needs. Widowed and in the early stages of dementia, she needed our help.
I touched Mom’s shoulder. “Yep. They’re Jon’s birds, aren’t they?” Her eyes fluttered briefly. I smoothed hair from her forehead.
“You like the bluebird best, don’t you, Mom?” I rubbed her back. “Bluebirds are special. We don’t see them often.”
“Your little brother was very talented,” Betty said.
“He was.” Father, help me. I’m sinking.
Good times
I missed Jon. We’d been close growing up. He’d been my buddy. Arriving home from school, we’d race into our woods. There we’d climb trees, wade in creeks, stalk wildlife, and identify birds. Together we biked country roads. On clear nights, we’d stargaze. He taught me the constellations he’d taught himself. I helped him with homework.
As adults, Jon taught me the basics of stained glass. He was the “fun uncle” to our daughters, joining them in games. We camped and kayaked in the boats he made. Good times. Blessed days. . . .
Bittersweet blessing
But those days were gone. Joy was elusive now.
Jon, the youngest, was clearly Mom’s favorite. Perhaps Mom’s dementia was a bittersweet blessing. Sometimes she didn’t recognize me. As her memories dissolved, I prayed her grief did too.
Bird watching
I placed bird feeders outside Mom’s window eight months ago, when she moved here. But nobody spotted a single bird. Where Mom had resided before — in assisted living, then a memory care facility — her bird feeders had teemed with birds. Cardinals, finches, nuthatches. Sometimes a bluebird.
Mom loved watching them! I was constantly refilling her feeders. But no, not here.
Finches
Moving on, we passed the nurse’s station. Nearby was an aviary of finches. Once, Mom had raised finches. I stopped beside it. Maybe the birds would rouse her.
“Little finches, Mom! Like those you used to raise.”
Mom continued dozing. No matter. Memories of her finches had flown away. I watched the zebra finches dart in and out of their baskets, shoving nest material from their beaks to their bedding. Even they felt the spring urge.
Quiet
Wheeling Mom further, I made small talk with staff, residents, and their families. In her day, Mom had enjoyed socializing. But speech was difficult for her. Her talkative days were infrequent. Today she was sleepy and extra quiet.
As I conversed, she sometimes opened her eyes. But mostly she dozed. Still, I kept up my chatter, commenting on the decorations adorning walls and residents’ doors.
Cardinal
One door had a cheery poster of a cardinal perched on a limb full of cherry blossoms, its beak open. I imagined the twill of its springtime melody. I slowed, pointing to it.
“That bird sure looks happy, doesn’t it?”
Mom’s eyes opened. She raised her chin, looked at the poster, and murmured. But I couldn’t hear her words. She’s waking. Good.
Kneeling beside her, I gently massaged her arthritic hands. “Spring birds are returning, Mom. Think we’ll see one on your bird feeder?”
Why do I keep saying that!? Mom didn’t comment, but before closing her eyes, she nodded.
Missing joy
It was spring, yes, but the joy I used to feel at its return? Would it ever come again?
I sighed. No matter. For her sake, I’d continue to pretend.
Mom’s frail body sagged in her chair. I repositioned her.
In truth, I didn’t expect things to change much. Oh, migrating birds would arrive . . . in some areas. Mom, at least, had the aviary with the cute finches. And Jon’s glass birds. They’d have to do.
Bluebird
Back in Mom’s room, I parked her chair by her bedside, so she faced the window. With my cell phone, I snapped a couple photos of sleepy Mama to share with family later.
Shrugging on my sweater, I looked back at Mom. Her eyes had opened wide. She was gazing outside. Light from the window washed over her face and light green eyes. She looked radiant. Raising my cell phone, I took another photo.
“Bird.”
Did she say that?
Zipping my sweater, I glimpsed a movement outside the window. Now my eyes widened.
Directly behind Mom’s suction-cupped bluebird, a real bluebird sat on her feeder, its plumage bright blue, like Jon’s eyes. I stared. Time stopped. Fluffing its feathers, it pecked at the feeder’s sunflower seeds. Somehow, I took a photo of it — behind Jon’s glass bird — before it flew away.
Did that really happen?!
Through joyful tears, I laughed. “Mom! Did you see the live bluebird?!”
Mom’s eyes stayed closed. Her head had drooped, but . . . she smiled!
Words of peace
Tension dissolving, a beloved verse arose: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).
Forgive my doubts, Father. Thank You for lifting two weary travelers!
Scripture quotations are taken from the New International Version.
Susanna Burkett Chenoweth writes fiction and non-fiction stories for children and adults. She has been published in ParentLife, Chicken Soup for the Expectant Mother’s Soul, The Secret Place, Upper Room, Today’s Christian Living, Bible Advocate, Angels on Earth, and other publications. Susanna lives in Danville, IN.