'But the hour will come – in fact it is here already –
when true worshippers will
worship the Father in spirit and truth:
that is the kind of
worshipper
the Father wants.
God is spirit,
and those who worship
must worship in spirit and truth.’
John 4:23 - 24
There are those who see truth as
something immutable and inflexible, as if a singular truth emerged at the
beginning of time itself. Yet truth is revealed, as the Ancient Greeks
suggested. What is hidden is slowly unveiled. And that revelation continues
unabated until the end of time.
Our notion and understanding of
God continued to emerge from time immemorial. God walks in the garden (Gen 3:8);
speaks to Abram and blesses him and Sarah with a child (Gen 21:2); encounters
Moses in a burning bush (Exodus 3:2); sends ten plagues upon the Egyptians
(Exodus 7 - 11); Moses enters the cloud (Exodus 24:16 - 18); he reveals himself
through the daily lives, battles, passions, poetry, songs, wisdom and
ultimately in the person of Jesus. With the sending of the Spirit (Acts 2) the
believers go out to all the world. This is a God who is present, who loves, who
engages with and gives honour and dignity to his creation.
Scholars agree that the
scriptures reflect the stories, needs, concerns and hopes of their communities.
There is an acceleration in the development of the early communities'
understanding of God as revealed in Jesus, best expressed in John's Gospel. There
is no reason for this growth to come to an end. When we read these scriptures
anew we bring our own story. There ought be no stasis in our own growth. There
is no end point where we know it all, where our understanding of God, our relationship
with him is concluded - at least not until the fullness of time. The more we
love him and know him the closer we come to the truth.
At the core of our being is a
desire and call to worship. It is a natural response to being given a share of
both creation and divinity. To worship God in truth, then, is to worship a God
who loves me in return, with all of my being. There is the requirement
to worship God on the Sabbath (Exodus 20:8) and now enjoined on us to
worship him on Sundays and Holy Days of obligation in a liturgy as old as old
as Christianity itself. This deep desire to worship is summoned and drawn from
us as we marvel at his creation and at those we love. Acts of worship include
looking at wonder at the night sky, the exhilaration of a warm sea breeze, the
intimacy of our relationships, the birth of our children and the loss of our
elderly.
If we worship in spirit and in
truth, the truth will set us free (John 8:32). And just what is this truth to
which we are being lead? It is, in the beginning - and the end Jesus - he who is the way, the truth and the
life (cf John 16:6).
Peter Douglas
I knew I couldn't defy my wife's Alzheimer’s. I learned to
embrace it instead.
by James Ruck
“Alzheimer’s.” The dreaded diagnosis given to my wife in 2010 landed
like a death sentence. Not just for Gail but for us, for our marriage as we
knew it. We had waited long for each other, meeting when I was 43 and she 45,
both on the other side of midlife crises. The idea of losing any of our
remaining years together to this disease was heart-wrenching.
But it also set in motion a journey, one available to anyone who faces
such life-altering news and is willing to ride on the power of faith and love.
We had a choice to make: Do we move into Alzheimer’s or run from it, fight it?
When Gail and I met in 1987 we found in each other the spark and the
values—faith, community and service—that we had each long been looking for.
How could I choose other than to embrace Gail along with the
Alzheimer’s? We decided to move into the disease, to make the most of our life
together, one day at a time, walking consciously into the unknown. It was a
decision made once but reaffirmed countless times since.
After the diagnosis, we intensified our volunteer commitments, Gail in
hospice care and parish activities and me at a soup kitchen and as a volunteer
chaplain at the county jail. We travelled a bit until that became too
overwhelming for her. We maintained an active life: walking, getting out to
movies and parks, collaborating in household tasks. As the disease progressed,
I accompanied Gail to her efforts and brought her along to mine. Friends near
and far who learned about Gail’s condition held us in their concern and
prayers. We rode, and continue to ride, on their energy.
Before the summer of 2014, I was not yet doing intensive caregiving.
Then things changed. One by one, Gail’s involvements became too problematic to
continue. Her hallucinations and agitation intensified—the demons of
frustration, anger and fear attacking and belittling her deteriorating mind. We
figured out how to cope with incontinence, her loss of interests, her decline
in speech. Still, the strain of being present to Gail, feeding her and supervising
all her activities, doing the practical work of running the house, coordinating
doctor visits and overseeing medications—it was intense.
In the New Year, Gail’s mental and physical decline accelerated. Caring
for her at home alone, I realized that we were on thin ice, one setback away
from disaster. One devastating day, an infection left Gail too limp to stand on
her own after going to the bathroom. There she was on the toilet, a mess and
pants down, and I was unable to help her for hours until friends came to our
rescue.
The ice finally cracked in May. A bad chest infection and a urinary
tract infection set in. Gail had a major seizure that landed her in the
hospital and from there, unable to walk, a nursing home.
A Privileged Time
I have been told, “You cannot be both caretaker and husband.” This
bothers me: How can I not be both caretaker and husband to Gail? Our
relationship has evolved into one that includes much caretaking. If I had
family in town, or three hands, maybe Gail would still be at home. But I do
not. So the Willows nursing home it is, on the fourth-floor dementia unit.
I go every day, feed Gail lunch and supper and stay until she falls
asleep. I want to do everything I can to reassure her, to ease any lingering
fear. I try to keep Gail engaged in life through little routines we repeat each
day: helping her to stand and walk, listening to music, pushing her wheelchair
through the facility to connect with others and through the lovely surrounding
neighbourhood. Gail is still a loving, social person. She brightened the lives
of staff, residents and visitors last year by saying: “I love you. You are so
special.” She does the same now just by shining her sparkling smile when they
make eye contact. For 29 years, I have been blessed by this smile and love. It
is a delight to see her light up the lives of so many others.
From the outset, I knew I was powerless to defy Alzheimer’s. I still
experience this realization daily. Hard as it is, we have experienced abundant
blessings all along the way. For me, two attitudes are necessary. The first is
living in the present. Here, trust is key: trust in God; in my own creativity
as new challenges arise; in friends and the power of their love, concern and
prayers. We can certainly make ourselves worriers, feeding all the feelings
triggered by overwhelming challenges. To purposely refuse to fuel these fears,
worries, guilt, feelings of inadequacy is crucial. God gives us the cross but
also the help to carry it. This I believe, and it has so far proven to be
true—not always to the head but to my feet, one step at a time.
The second is trusting that the loss experienced each day is only part
of the picture. Dealing with Alzheimer’s, we are at the edge of mystery: the
medical unknowns, the mystery of diminishment, death and whatever is beyond. No
one knows what God has ahead for us. Jesus understands our anguish: “My God, my
God, why did you abandon me.” The belief that there is life beyond death does
not ease the pain of approaching it. But do I cultivate hope or wallow in
despair when God has been so good to us in the past?
Death is coming. I have many experiences of bone-crushing sadness. But I
refuse to let death claim our lives before it arrives. Trying to make each day
as good as I can is worth the effort. We sit. My mind wanders, and I do not
know what is going on in Gail’s head. I remember a comment from a friend whose
wife died of a brain tumour: “I dreamed of us sitting on the porch when we were
old.” Gail is far too young to be old. I do not know how much older she will
get. But sitting outside looking at the lovely scenery, sitting waiting for her
to fall asleep—these moments are special in a way I cannot describe. Time is
empty in a way, rich in a way—punctuated periodically by “I love you,” me to her
or still, occasionally, her to me. I do not know how much Gail benefits from my
presence. I think she does. I hope that it dissolves any lingering fear she
might have. I know that I benefit from her presence. To care for her is a
privilege.
A couple of times a week I
read Gail the letter I wrote on the day I asked her to marry me: “Sharing the
bread of life in good times and bad, open fully to the miracles the Lord will
work through us. Loving with open hands, not clinging.... All this I want. I
want our lives to make music and dance together, overflowing to others...to
cry, to laugh, to love! I love you, Gail!” I reassure her that this is just as
true today. Even though she cannot understand the words, I can usually still
spark a smile. Caregiving frames these moments to treasure. This is the
blessing of our lives. I want to nurture the spark of our love for as long as I
can.
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