A Education in Life

"You need to bring the kids over. Come anytime!" From beneath her white veil, the religious sister smiled at me and continued to insist. "Bring the kids over!" 

I knew that I needed to finally do it. 

When I had first learned that this woman had opened a home for elderly people and those near death, I was excited. The life-affirming mission of this home was beautiful. Yet, I hadn't taken my kids; it was hard to determine the "perfect" time to make a trip. However, that day after Mass, the answer popped in my head. 

"What if we just came and brought our schoolbooks?" I said slowly, turning the idea over in my mind. Instead of meandering home or heading to a park after daily Mass, once a week we could drive over to this home for the dying instead.

It would be, I realized, an answer to a prayer that dwelled in the depths of my heart.  

When we visited relatives last Christmas, I thought about how good it is to be with others, even if we aren't constantly doing an activity together. There's something reassuring and comforting about curling up on a couch with a book and seeing a couple other people playing a game nearby or watching a show together. Just being around other people, in community, is a beautiful and consoling thing. 

Around that time, I also read Dumbing Us Down: The Hidden Curriculum of Compulsory Schooling, by John Taylor Gatto. One of Gatto's marvelous observations jumped out at me:

"It is absurd and anti-life to be part of a system that compels you to sit in confinement with people of exactly the same age and social class. That system effectively cuts you off from the immense diversity of life and the synergy of variety; indeed, it cuts you off from your own past and future..." (page 23)

Gatto put a deep desire of mine into words. I want my children to receive an education that offers them the diversity and beauty of life, and the immensity of God's wondrous works. Yet, while our family's homeschooling and slow pace of life provides time to spend with elderly neighbors or people of varying ages in our community--at daily Mass, museum excursions, or walks to the park--neighbors' schedules didn't always mesh with ours, and the weather doesn't always cooperate for outings. Plus, I had an inkling that we were called to reach out to others in a new way--I just didn't know what that looked like.

Here, in the chapel after daily Mass, God offered my kids and I an opportunity. 

My children and I could simply do life in a home for those who are near death. We could bring our mess and chaos and learning and laughter into a place where residents are preparing for their final journey to God. 

It took a month or so to actually get there, as sickness and other unforeseen events sprang up. But, finally, but finally, my children and I hesitantly walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. We were welcomed with open arms, and we slipped into the living room to dump our schoolbooks. The newness of it all struck some of my kids with shyness, and in between talking with residents, they happily retreated into their schoolwork. 

We came back the next week, and the next. The faces of the residents would light up when my kids entered the room, and my little ones happily scampered around. I watched one elderly woman cackle with delight as my toddler played on her lap, and I saw the way my kids began to settle into the environment comfortably. It was quickly becoming a school of life and joy for us.

And then it became a school of death. 

After visiting the adjacent chapel one day, we piled through the front door. Go see Miss L I said, ushering my kids forward. They began walking towards the living room, where we would always see Miss L, the resident who would always sit facing the entryway, waiting to greet us. 

A nurse nearby stopped and looked at me. L died, she whispered. My heart sank. Sickness had kept us at home for a few weeks, and it never occurred to me that in our absence, a nearly 100-year-old resident could die. But of course, this IS a home for the frail elderly and those near death, I reasoned. 

I stumbled into the living room and looked at the empty chair where this woman had once sat. One of my young children approached me. When will we see Miss L, mom?

Someday, when we die and go to be with Jesus, I responded, trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears. I collapsed onto the couch as my children pulled out their schoolbooks. I let the tears come, slowly. We had only known this woman for a couple of months. And yet, she had found a way into my heart, into all of our hearts. I looked around and noted that the living room was empty. None of the other residents seemed to be around; just volunteers who were busily working in the kitchen. Why are we here? I wondered. We weren't doing anything, and the resident we usually visited with was dead. But, we had committed to visiting this place, so here we were.

All of a sudden, a family streamed into the room. When the mom walked by, I greeted her and, remembering that a relative of hers had been in poor health, asked how everyone was doing. "He died," she responded. 

Not only that, but he had died in this house just a couple hours before my kids and I had arrived. 

I quietly told my kids about this as they worked, and the question hit me again: Why were we here? As the house began to swirl in a frenzy of activity, with family members and volunteers working together in the aftermath of a man's death, my kids and I weren't doing anything. And then it hit me: What if we were supposed to just be present? To be here in this living room, doing our work with prayer and love, as the people around us grappled with death? 

One of my sons walked up to me. 

Let's go to the chapel and pray for Mr. R, he said, naming the man who just died. 

We gathered our things and left, taking refuge in the chapel where we knelt before the Bread of Life, God Himself. We prayed for those who had just died, as well as their loved ones. When I had been clueless, my kids knew what to do. 

We continue to return to this home where death has so often come. It is a place of joy and peace, and life bursts forth: The life of my young children cartwheeling across the living room. The life of volunteers cooking, cleaning, and sitting with the residents. The life in the joyous smile of one resident who has never spoken a word to me, but instead gazes at my kids and I with wide-open eyes. 

My toddler races up to one resident, proudly holding up alphabet flashcards. Puzzle pieces spread across the floor. One child proudly shows anyone nearby the progress that he's made in his reading book. On one occasion, I walk out of the bathroom to see that one of my children is poring over a word search with an elderly resident. Another time, a child is struggling through reading practice, and a volunteer nearby walks over. She pairs hand motions with the letter sounds, and my child suddenly, perfectly, makes the appropriate sounds. I'm a retired speech language pathologist, she says, smiling broadly before returning to her vacuum. 

There is chatter and laughter and joy and life, so much life. In this home, we are immersed in "the immense diversity of life and the synergy of variety" that Gatto speaks of, and our time here impacts the rest of our week. 

One morning, we're sprawled out on the floor of our church during Eucharistic Adoration, and we begin looking through a book of sacred artwork. We see a painting that depicts that healing of Bartimaeus and read the accompanying Scripture. One of my kids sits up straighter, whispering: Mr. M is blind! A resident from the home we visit has, unknowingly, made this Scripture passage come alive for my children. My children have reached their small hands up to meet his hand and they've cleared their books and toys from the floor so he can walk into the living room. When Jesus encounters a man who is blind, this isn't some distant concept; for them, it's part of life. 

Here, in this dwelling for those who near death, my children see the vulnerabilities that often come with old age; vulnerabilities that will most likely affect each of us in the future. Some elderly people can't see, others cannot feed or clothe themselves, and some need assistance in getting to the restroom. This is simply a normal part of life. In a society that promotes independence and often seeks ways to avoid frailty and sickness, my children are able to observe a community where volunteers lovingly assist and care for elderly people who need assistance in some way. My children are able to see the gracious ways in which the residents accept this love and care, too. In this home, there is love and self-gift and interdependency. It is a true community of life.  

And so, we return to this home of sacrifice and love, of the joy that is found in God. When we leave, one particular resident always thanks me for bringing my children. But it is I who should be thank her--and I do. For here, we have received a tremendous gift: my children--and myself--have begun to experience an education in hope and sacrifice, in holiness and love. An education in life.