Stella

Every so often, I visit one of the “shut-ins” that belong to our church. I tell myself I’m doing this as a (very) small contribution to our greater church community and as a small gratitude payment to God (… in the way that a penny would be considered a monthly payment on a borrowed $1,000,000,000). I take them a birthday card and sit and talk with them for a few minutes. Each and every time I’m leaving one of these visits, I realize that the entire point of my visit was never, ever, for-one-minute about what I could do for them … but what they just did for me. Take the example of 92-year-old Stella.

Stella was the first “shut-in” I visited. I went to her small apartment on her birthday last year. Three of her seven grown children were there, and two of her grandchildren. We all sat around her on folding chairs in a semi-circle. One daughter had come from New Hampshire. One son from Boston was there. Her oldest (and geographically-closest) daughter was there, too. As I sat there chatting with these strangers, I learned all about their family. Their Scottish heritage. How their Mom was raised up in Nova Scotia with winters that made our winters look like beach vacations. They brought out breathtaking and beautifully designed quilts that their Mother had made. All while they talked, bragging about their Mom, this tiny legally-blind woman just smiled. As I was leaving, they each stood and hugged me.

Recently, when I visited Stella, it was just the two of us chatting. I was inspired by her indomitable nature, cheerful spirit and common sense. My mental notebook was quickly filled with Stella-tips on feeding a family creatively (“I don’t make anything from a box. I only make inexpensive things that taste good.”); to fighting weight gain (“I used to tell people I went to Harvard because I walked through the university every day to catch the bus on the other side of campus to go to work. That’s how I kept the weight off.”); to the disappearing concept of community (“I don’t know my neighbors around here. People just come and go. No one ever takes time to say hello anymore.”); to life—in general (“Any day above ground is a good one!”).

During our visit, Stella pulled out a 3-ring recipe notebook that her daughter had created for her. It contained Stella’s favorite recipes in extra large, easy-to-read type. “You’ll like this recipe,” she told me, handing me some paper and a pen to copy it down. She shared her recipes for Hot Milk Sponge Cake and Oatmeal Chocolate Cake. Let me just say that Stella knows her stuff. Despite her physical challenges, she—like most of us—takes great pride in getting around on her own.

Stella did admit she was having trouble navigating the kitchen recently. The local “Meals on Wheels” program (delivered to her each weekday) was a godsend. Before leaving, I decided to test the waters of the pride pool. “Would you mind if I brought you some hot lunch or a simple dinner once in a while on the weekend?”

“Oh, you don’t have to bother,” she said.

“It’s no trouble. I come by right by your place on my way to the store,” I said. “And I love to cook on the weekend. Nothing fancy. Just some homemade soup or something simple.”

“Well, I do love homemade soup,” She said.

“Good. I’ll call first,” I said—touching her arm gently. “And I’ll see you soon.”

“That would be nice. I don’t get many visitors.”