This is True Religion (James 1:27)

"Old age, to Joyce, was associated with the most beautiful things that she had ever known: the warmest hospitality, the tenderest love, the cheeriest home-life. Strangers were in the old place now, and Grandmother Ware was no longer living, but, for her sake, Joyce held sacred every wrinkled face set round with snow-white hair, just as she looked tenderly on all old-fashioned flowers, because she had seen them first in her grandmother’s garden."

(This beautiful passage is from a delightful book our family just finished reading today, #2 in The Little Colonel Series, titled The Giant Scissors and written by Annie Fellows Johnston.)

Those of us who are blessed to have loving grandparents treasure these words. The sights and sounds of a grandma’s house are something that stays with us our whole lives – roast beef cooking on the stove, Grandma mixing gravy, someone banging on the organ, Grandpa’s rocking chair creaking, birds in the feeder outside - but above all, many pleasant conversations, reminiscences, and always lots of hearty laughter. Having already lost one dear grandpa this past year, I am realizing that these memories will soon be only memories and I’ll probably live most of my adult life without any grandparents at all. What a gift they have given in allowing us to partake of the safety and love of their home.

Last week I had the pleasure of getting to know one of the shut-ins from our church. She has had a difficult life, having lost all of her family, including her husband, who has already been dead for many years. She is left with few people to talk to and no way to leave her apartment. She and I enjoyed a nice lunch out together and lively conversation, as she told me about her past, her family, and her life now.

Some people might think this is a boring way to spend time or that older people are not our responsibility, but remember how Joyce held sacred every wrinkled face because of the love her grandmother showed her. Every person dying in a nursing home, lonely and sad with no young faces to cheer them, was somebody’s baby, probably somebody’s young bride or husband, and most likely somebody’s mother or father. We are told in the Bible that part of true religion is found in remembering the widow and, of course, the widower as well. It’s our responsibility and also our supreme pleasure to bring love and joy into these seasoned hearts. How dreary to be trapped in a building all the time and never seen anyone from the outside, let alone someone young trying to bring you happiness.

Part of being Christ’s body here on earth is helping to take care of those that society tends to overlook. As my sisters and I have had the chance to befriend and visit with many older people during the past years, we’ve found that the rewards far outweigh the work. Older people are often full of wisdom and stories that enrich our lives as well. Being Christ’s hands and feet brings many rich rewards, not the least of which is the knowledge that what we have done unto the least of these, we have done unto Him. After all, if this was our mother or grandmother, wouldn’t we want them to have the best of care and love?

A poem by Mary Dow Brine that I learned when I was about 6 expresses this same thought and perhaps may encourage you to give some extra attention to the older people in your life this week. If you don’t have any older people in your life, perhaps this will encourage you to find some!

The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was "God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

— Posted by Naomi