His small hand gingerly reached out and tapped gently on her arm. "I know how to play soccer," he whispered—his first words to his great-great-aunt. She bent close to hear and then exclaimed, "That's wonderful!" A smile crept over her face, spreading wrinkles like ripples across a pond. He smiled too. Then he folded his hands together and pushed them into his lap and shifted on his chair and smiled at her again. She, looking beautiful and proud at 93 in her Easter dress, sat back again in her chair.
His mother, my sister, said to him, "You know, Aunt Mae used to live in Kentucky just like we do. She rode a mule." His eyes grew wide and he smiled again. I looked at her hands—now crooked with age—and imagined how strong they must have been when they guided a mule through the Appalachians, carrying the young missionary schoolteacher back in the mountain hollows long before a president officially declared a war on poverty.
She said, remembering, "It's hard to be young these days. There are so many temptations. It's so much harder now for them"—she nodded at her 6-year-old great-great-nephew—"than it was for me." She looked at him again, sighed, and folded her hands in her lap.
The small hand was tapping on her arm again. "I found a hockey puck," he said with a bit more confidence. She exclaimed, "That's wonderful!" and I knew she meant it, because it gave her such joy to see him so delighted. He told her the story of the discovery of a hockey puck.
She looked out the window then, and her hands began to move back and forth along the arms of her rocking chair. The arms of the old wooden chair had been polished smooth by these hands as she watched days unfold and then die.
She said, speaking to me but looking at a tree blossoming just beyond her window, "Do you think you could talk to our president? You live in Washington. Maybe he would have breakfast with you, and you could tell him what a mess he's making of our country." The hands were moving more quickly now, and it was clear she was only half-joking. Then she laughed lightly.
"WHO MADE THOSE?" He was jumping down from his chair beside hers and pointing to an array of homemade valentines, pictures, and flowers she had spread around her small room. Her face showed both sadness and pride as she explained that they were gifts from her grandchildren. Her husband had died young, and her only son had moved several years ago with his family across the country for a job.
She got up, came over to me, and took my left hand. "No ring yet?" she asked with a warm smile as she winked at me. There was no pressure intended. It was just her way of telling me what a joy and comfort her own marriage and family were in her life—and her wish for my happiness. A bit of sorrow crept into her smile, and I could tell she was thinking how far 3,000 miles is.
"What about this? It's pretty." His hands were stroking a colorful, crocheted afghan. "My friend made that," she explained. Her voice dropped and became distant as she pointed across the lawn and said, "Margaret's over there in the infirmary. She was my best friend—she was always so full of life. But then she had a stroke—it was last fall. Now she sometimes doesn't know me." She fought back a few tears. "It's as if she's been carried a million miles away."
One tear that would not be pushed back rolled down her cheek. "And she made such beautiful afghans. Now she has no interest in them." Margaret's skilled hands sit still in her lap all the time now, she explained to us, except when Margaret is agitated; then they flail helplessly at the air.
"How about this?" He had discovered the simple handmade jewelry box I had brought for her from Nicaragua. I remembered the awe she had for its simple beauty, but even more clearly I remembered her first question. "What kind of hands made this jewelry box?" When I explained that the hands were rough and poor and had known great tragedy, she said, "Yes. Those hands know beauty." He understood too. "They have a war," he said solemnly to her. "Some of the children sometimes die."
He walked back over to her chair, put his face right in front of hers, and began tapping with great vigor on her arm. "I can read now!" he said. And she exclaimed, "That's wonderful!" And the smile took over her whole body this time. He laughed lightly and sat down by her.
A minute later he jumped off his chair. His small hand grasped mine as he said, "I'm thirsty, Aunt Joyce." Pulling me down the long hall to the drinking fountain, he took us past open doors that revealed frail bodies, alone, bent over lunch.
"Why does everybody talk so loud here?" he wanted to know. I explained how age often claims hearing. And I thought of the other claims it makes—on vision and strength and friends. But what a rare grace and wisdom it imparts. I wondered how many times over a lifetime Aunt Mae's hands had folded in prayer in gratitude for what she has been given, and I silently thanked her for her gift of enduring faith.
The small hand was tapping on my arm and brought my attention back from my thoughts. "I feel sorry for Aunt Mae." I looked down at his sad eyes, then reached out and gave his small hand a squeeze.
Joyce Hollyday was an associate editor of Sojourners magazine when this article appeared.
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