Several years ago I worked for a company that served the needs of Hospice patients. One particular incident has come back to my memory over and over again. The family was a three generation family; all living together. They were Russian immigrants. I learned very quickly that they were people of great faith. Alas, the patriarch of the family, “grandpa”, we’ll call him, was in the final stage of life. He was dying. My job was to deliver whatever medical supplies and equipment that could make him comfortable in his remaining time. The youngest of the three generations was made up of a young boy, about 5 and a little girl, around 9. She spoke very good English. All the other family members spoke some English, but it was a struggle to communicate, so this little girl acted (and admirably well, I might add) as our interpreter. After several trips to their home over a roughly two week period, I was becoming very familiar with the family members. I told them that I was also praying for their family, during this challenging time. Each time that I arrived, grandpa was a little weaker. But each time I arrived with supplies, I was greeted warmly and energetically. It was like going home for a holiday. Everyone in the home came to the door to greet me and I got hugs and smiles; the whole works. You’d never know their suffering if you hadn’t seen them over a period of time. The truth is that their eyes gave it away. In their eyes I could see the pain, the anxiety and the fatigue of this battle. Their hearts were heavy, but they allowed the Lord to keep them positive.
Then, one inevitable and fateful morning, I got the call. Grandpa was gone on to his eternal reward. I needed to go by and pick up all of the medical equipment, as soon as was practical. It was late morning when I arrived. This time the only one at home was grandma. Her husband of many years was now gone. This lovely lady was right out of a movie. She had the long flower print dress and apron. Her head was covered with a kerchief. She was petite and round. Her face and eyes, which usually contained a glow, were now sad and quiet. Nonetheless, she greeted me in Russian, gave me a hug and then kept holding my hand in both of her own. She would pat and stroke my hand and while looking straight into my eyes, say “thank you, thank you” over and over.
I was speechless. I felt like I had done nothing of value. Her husband was gone. I brought only the few things available on this earth to help bring what very little comfort that could be had; but she was sincere and persistent, “thank you, thank you….” I went about my business and packed up all of the equipment into my van. Just before I was to leave, I approached grandma and folded my hands together in the sign of prayer. I put my hand on her shoulder and motioned for her to join me in the living room. “Yes!” she exclaimed and immediately began to muscle a large ottoman into the center of the floor. She then knelt beside of it and folded her hands on top of it. Next she motioned for me to join her. I knelt down across from her and began to pray for her and her family. Suddenly though, I began to hear her praying gradually increase in volume. It was all in Russian, but I somehow began to realize that SHE WAS PRAYING FOR ME! Suddenly, broken by this humble woman’s heart, I began to notice tears streaming down my cheeks. Grandma finished her prayer and looked up at me. I said, “You pray for me?” In halting English she smiled and said, “For you and you family.” This woman set aside her grief to pray for me and my family. It was one of the most humbling moments in my life. It changed my life. I’ll never forget her or the lesson she taught me that day. Blessings!

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