In some areas of life, the little things matter most.
by Dana Macfarlane
“For who has despised the day of small things?” (Zechariah 4:10, NKJV).
I treasured this scripture and had it engraved on a plaque on my desk. It served as a reminder to be mindful of the first whispers of transformation.
As a nursing home activities assistant, I hosted events to help our residents with boredom, isolation, and memory care. But as their friend, I also sought to help them through hardship.
Though I’ve changed names and details to protect their privacy, the stories I share here represent the cherished people I came to know.
James
James, a youngish seventy-year-old, almost drowned as a child. Still fearful of water, he spent the day before his scheduled bath in tears. Comfort came from my dog, Bell, who often accompanied me to work.
This five-and-a-half-pound fur angel held special powers to change the atmosphere of any room, leaving behind a trail of joyful sighs and sloppy kisses.
Marge
In our community, residents could not be alone outside. So I sat with Marge during her cigarette breaks and listened to her bitterly recount the betrayals of her multiple husbands.
For a costume party, I found matching clown outfits at a second-hand store, complete with curly wigs and loud makeup. Marge glowed as I wheeled her through the halls, sashaying together in full garb. We won first place in the costume contest.
Grigg and Carlyle
As I walked past the room of a recent admission, I saw Mr. Grigg sitting in his wheelchair bare-chested, his t-shirt gripped between his fingers. I stopped to help him finish dressing. Then I called his wife and handed him the phone and overheard her reassuring words of love.
Mr. Carlyle was a cheerful fellow who quietly hummed 1940s big band tunes and mesmerized his lunch buddies with his World War II adventures. Sometimes when I stopped by his room, I found him comfortably settled in his favorite chair, dressed impeccably, a book softly cradled in his hands.
The moment he looked up, a wide grin would spread across his face, and he would invite me to take a seat, ready for a friendly exchange. Over time, as I saw him decline, I knew I would miss him terribly.
Mike
Mike, in room 19A, had an impressive film career in the 1970s. Now he spent most of his time asleep. When I caught him between naps and in just the right mood, we’d sit together while he told me stories of famous people and exciting parties.
Eventually, Mike’s sister arranged his transfer to a facility near her. He packed his things a week early. Then, with a smile and a wave, he left as scheduled, and I was happy for him. His empty room echoed the void we all felt in our hearts.
Ida
For weeks, Ida, from Sweden, lay silent and stared at the ceiling. I attempted to draw her out with gentle conversation, only to watch her turn her face toward the window. A dark cloud of depression hung over her.
One day, being careful not to push, I asked her to point to her village on a map of Sweden I’d brought with me. She did and spoke about her mother. A breakthrough.
George
Across from my office, George spewed expletives at anyone who offered words of kindness. His elderly wife, unable to care for him, was forced to admit him to our facility. He died later from pneumonia, but I believe bitterness and a broken heart weakened his body.
Feeble and faded
Many endured some of life’s toughest transitions and handled loss in their own way. Their bodies feeble and memories faded to dull gray, they were helpless to care for themselves.
Despite excellent medical care and a doting staff, some residents remained despondent, depressed, and in pain. As they grieved the loss of independence and self-worth, their joyful moments were few and loneliness was common.
Prayers and small things
I carried them in my prayers. I longed to make it better, to encourage them and reach their broken souls with love and value. But I didn’t always see the change for which I hoped. Some residents never improved.
So I learned to catch the small things. There was the twinkle of excitement in their eyes when I invited them to bingo or a soothing calm that descended on the room as we colored side-by-side.
Flowers and reading
In the small garden club I started, residents planted an array of vibrant flowers, transforming the courtyard into a cozy and welcoming space. It was here that they happily soaked up the sun’s rays, savoring its warmth on their faces, and returned to their rooms with beaming smiles.
There were moments I glanced up while reading a story to see fully engaged listeners leaning in with eyes closed. The room filled with the comforting sounds of the words, pages turning, and soft breathing.
Glimpsing God’s embrace
In the seemingly trivial moments, the ones often overlooked, I saw God’s gentle embrace. It all mattered. Fresh hope filled my heart.
I came to understand that even a tiny glimpse or taste of His extravagant love is cause for joyous celebration. While I looked for big breakthroughs and miraculous healings, our loving Savior continued a quiet and sacred pursuit of those He cherished.
Agents of love
God’s yearning to ease their pain and exhibit His love was palpable, as was His call for me to work alongside Him and bear witness to His tender touch in their lives — so committed to freeing those jailed in prisons of hopelessness, loss, and pain that a cup of cool water given in His name is rewarded.
I learned that we partner with Him when we recognize and honor every small beginning and open ourselves up to a profound revelation of His heart and intentions. When we are content to be agents of His love, in all its manifestations, He can work wonders through us — like a door unlocking to a world of possibilities.
About the Author
Dana Macfarlane (a pen name) has been published in Breakthrough Intercessor, The Upper Room, The Quiet Hour, The Christian Journal, and other publications. She has also published writings in The Christ Collective and Doxology: A Collective, both published by Tall Pine Books, as well as in Swallow’s Nest (Oregon Christian Writers). Dana lives with her husband in Southern Oregon.