How's the Chicken Salad?

I’ve made a lot of new friends among Dad’s nursing staff and care team at the rehab facility where he is recovering from his bout with Covid, but the surprise has been how many new older friends I’ve made. Think 80’s and 90’s. This is the season when bodies and minds are slowing, and complications are arriving.

Dad and I sometimes eat in the communal dining area. We sit at tables with some dear older folks with varying conditions, most confined to wheelchairs and in need of assistance. Conversation can be limited due to some of the cognitive challenges, but there’s understanding in their eyes. I wouldn’t say the interactions have been easy or comfortable, but they’ve been meaningful.

A couple of days ago, Dad was served dinner in his room, where we sat talking of his career days with GE Aircraft Engines. We needed some salt, so I made a quick run to the dining room. While there, I saw two gentlemen with whom I’ve interacted before. One is nearly non-verbal, but his sweet wife was there talking and caring for him. Across the table was another man, fully in control of his faculties, but whose body is in lockdown. Smiling and greeting them, I asked if I could borrow the table salt. “Of course, what’s ours is yours,” he said.

“How’s the chicken salad?” I asked, noticing what everyone was eating. That simple greeting became something more. Moments later, he and I were wandering down memory lane. Having been a repeat visitor for weeks, I’d noticed that he rarely had anyone visit or even talk with him. With saltshaker in hand, I stood listening.

Paul is 80 years old, confined to a body brace around his torso. Multiple back surgeries and cancer wrack his frame. He’s lived a hard life. He’s had four marriages:  two of his wives succumbed to cancer, and another to alcoholism. He’s always felt like a disappointment to people, especially his father, who “wished he’d been born a girl.”

He was the youngest, and has lived estranged and rejected from family, even being written out of the family will due to his own raging alcohol addiction and destructive tendencies. Now, here he sat, nearing the end of life, collecting his thoughts without much hope. Or so I thought.

He went on to say, “Miracles have happened in my life.” And in rapid-fire succession he rattled some out.

"Miracles have happened in my life."

At 39, in a desperate drunken state, he cried out to God, saying, “I’m a total mess, can I have a do-over? Can you restart me at one year old again?” He woke up the next morning and, to his amazement, the insatiable alcoholic cravings were gone and haven’t returned since. “I’m not particularly religious, but I think God heard me.” 

Always active and athletic, he was then suddenly struck with a heart attack and wound up in the hospital with an enlarged heart in danger of rupture. He lay on a gurney, thinking his time had come, when suddenly he found himself standing in a vibrant green meadow. “It was indescribably beautiful, and surrounding me was the most remarkable, confident peace. I knew that something was taking care of me, and that I’d be all right. There were no brilliant lights or voices speaking, just palpable peace. I think I was in heaven.” The doctor later described it as an NDE, near death experience.

I was fascinated by what I heard, as quick little stories came one after another.

The sweet lady across the table rolled her eyes in disbelief, thinking, I suspect, that I wanted to get back to my dad. And while that was true, the heavenly Father held my attention right here.

“I’m trying to write down the events of my life. There must be a reason these things have happened; perhaps they would encourage someone, somewhere. It’s just, I get so emotional when recounting the dark episodes, that I’ve stopped, but these parts feel good.”

“I think God wants you to write these stories down, Paul,” I said. “They have definitely encouraged me today. And one more thing:  I know God wants you to hear that you’re not a disappointment to Him.” Now he was doing the listening.

I told him how much I appreciated him sharing his stories with me. I promised to come back the next day and bring him a favorite book on NDE called Imagine Heaven. With that, I made my way back to Dad’s room, with salt and stories in hand.

Sadly, Paul was discharged home before I could hand off the book, but I’m certain the “God connection” already happened.

Some of God’s best stories are found in bruised and bent containers. Simple introductions may reveal God’s priorities. Met any people like Paul, lately?