“My ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War,” she said, sitting in her wheelchair next to me. “They received in return a large track of land. Every generation, they divided the property once again among the children.”
She was talking about the land and the houses owned by her relatives in Polk County, North Carolina, just south of Hendersonville.
“My parents gave me this house free and clear: no mortgage,” she continued, in reference to her three-story home in west Ashville. I was listening, and others were also, as she told one story after another. She was lucid, humorous, and entertaining, all the more remarkable because she had just celebrated her 103rd birthday.
“We tied the birthday balloons to the mailbox,” she said, and I remembering seeing them as we drove up. It helped us find her house, us and the other 20 or so people who showed up for the Christmas gathering. Her daughter was there with her husband, having flown in from Las Vegas. Two caregivers came and a neighbor. But mostly it was us, from the church, there to swap stories, sing carols, and serve communion.
We also ate lunch. There was enough food spread out to serve two or three times as many people who came: sandwiches, fruit, and a cookie tray with a half dozen different treats. I asked for the Ginger Ale rather than the coffee or tea. It was all good.
For pictures we all crowded into the living room, but the pump organ was in the adjoining room. Our organist from the church sat down and played one song after another, mostly Christmas carols. And many of us sang from memory while others talked among themselves.
It was, in many ways, an old-fashioned Christmas and surely repeated thousands of times around the world. An elderly woman, mostly homebound, receiving guests (including the two ministers) for a mid-day social and devotional luncheon.
After an hour of this, I convened the group and called for prayer. Here and there people mentioned loved ones who are ill and friends and family who are traveling. I talked about my brother-in-law, now in hospice care after living for 18 months in an Alzheimer’s unit at a nursing home in another state. That may entail some traveling for me. I called upon another minister to lead in prayer, and he did so with a strong voice and a tender heart. In the background, the radio blared a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells” and I was glad the prayer was short.
Then we passed the tray of bread broken into bite-size pieces and small cups of grape juice. Baptists we were, mostly, and not accustomed to wine at communion. I spoke the words of institution (as they are known in clerical circles), and we all partook.
That’s when we ate, and after that the host of honor—Francis Albertson—announced to all, “I have something for you. Hand me that bag.” And somebody sat it right in front of me, on the end-table we had commandeered for use as a communion table. In the bag were more than 30 white number 11 mailing envelopes, none with names or addresses. “I have made you each an ornament for your tree,” she said with a wide smile on her face. It should have been us bringing her gifts. But as I prepared to leave, I took one from the stack, and when I got home, I opened it to discover a cream-colored card with a poem, and at the top a red ribbon and a red and white candy cane (maybe two inches from top to bottom.
“Look at the candy cane. What do you see? Stripes that are red like the blood shed for me. White for my savior who’s sinless and pure. J is for Jesus, my Lord, that‘s for sure! Turn it around and a staff you will see Jesus, my shepherd is coming for me.”
I smiled as I read it aloud, then placed it on the piano and thought,” What a nice way to spend a day at Christmas. I hope I am, at 103, as alive, alert, and engaged as Francis is. And I hope there will be people coming to see me and sing carols with me.”
“By the way,” she had said as I prepared to leave her lovely home, “Go out the back way. I am putting in a patio so I can host events outside.”
“My ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War,” she said, sitting in her wheelchair next to me. “They received in return a large track of land. Every generation, they divided the property once again among the children.”
She was talking about the land and the houses owned by her relatives in Polk County, North Carolina, just south of Hendersonville.
“My parents gave me this house free and clear: no mortgage,” she continued, in reference to her three-story home in west Ashville. I was listening, and others were also, as she told one story after another. She was lucid, humorous, and entertaining, all the more remarkable because she had just celebrated her 103rd birthday.
“We tied the birthday balloons to the mailbox,” she said, and I remembering seeing them as we drove up. It helped us find her house, us and the other 20 or so people who showed up for the Christmas gathering. Her daughter was there with her husband, having flown in from Las Vegas. Two caregivers came and a neighbor. But mostly it was us, from the church, there to swap stories, sing carols, and serve communion.
We also ate lunch. There was enough food spread out to serve two or three times as many people who came: sandwiches, fruit, and a cookie tray with a half dozen different treats. I asked for the Ginger Ale rather than the coffee or tea. It was all good.
For pictures we all crowded into the living room, but the pump organ was in the adjoining room. Our organist from the church sat down and played one song after another, mostly Christmas carols. And many of us sang from memory while others talked among themselves.
It was, in many ways, an old-fashioned Christmas and surely repeated thousands of times around the world. An elderly woman, mostly homebound, receiving guests (including the two ministers) for a mid-day social and devotional luncheon.
After an hour of this, I convened the group and called for prayer. Here and there people mentioned loved ones who are ill and friends and family who are traveling. I talked about my brother-in-law, now in hospice care after living for 18 months in an Alzheimer’s unit at a nursing home in another state. That may entail some traveling for me. I called upon another minister to lead in prayer, and he did so with a strong voice and a tender heart. In the background, the radio blared a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells” and I was glad the prayer was short.
Then we passed the tray of bread broken into bite-size pieces and small cups of grape juice. Baptists we were, mostly, and not accustomed to wine at communion. I spoke the words of institution (as they are known in clerical circles), and we all partook.
That’s when we ate, and after that the host of honor—Francis Albertson—announced to all, “I have something for you. Hand me that bag.” And somebody sat it right in front of me, on the end-table we had commandeered for use as a communion table. In the bag were more than 30 white number 11 mailing envelopes, none with names or addresses. “I have made you each an ornament for your tree,” she said with a wide smile on her face. It should have been us bringing her gifts. But as I prepared to leave, I took one from the stack, and when I got home, I opened it to discover a cream-colored card with a poem, and at the top a red ribbon and a red and white candy cane (maybe two inches from top to bottom.
“Look at the candy cane. What do you see? Stripes that are red like the blood shed for me. White for my savior who’s sinless and pure. J is for Jesus, my Lord, that‘s for sure! Turn it around and a staff you will see Jesus, my shepherd is coming for me.”
I smiled as I read it aloud, then placed it on the piano and thought,” What a nice way to spend a day at Christmas. I hope I am, at 103, as alive, alert, and engaged as Francis is. And I hope there will be people coming to see me and sing carols with me.”
“By the way,” she had said as I prepared to leave her lovely home, “Go out the back way. I am putting in a patio so I can host events outside.”
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