Love

I thought a lot about love today. ALOT.

I work at an assisted living facility for my grown up job now. I started last week.

After some years of working with children, I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Which, honestly, there are a lot of similarities between the two age groups, so the transition doesn't feel quite so startling. But there are definite adjustments.

My supervisor and I were walking down a hallway this afternoon, and saw through an open doorway, an elderly woman, one of the tiniest women I have ever seen in my life, sitting on her bed, with no top on. A little startling, always.
"Jean," my supervisor said, going into the room, "Where is your shirt sweetie?"
"Well, I'm trying to put my pajamas on for bed." Jean replied, though the clock on the wall said 3pm.
"Oh Jean, its not bedtime yet. We still need to have dinner." My supervisor brightly informed her.
Confusion. "Oh. Well alright. Let me get my blouse on."
Then, as we tried to clothe her, she clouded again. "Why are we getting dressed? Its bedtime?"
The conversation went around a few times, until we gently dressed her in a pink top and fur vest, and guided her to her walker.
She grabbed my supervisor's arm, and with a clear, pained expression said, "I'm alone. I am SO VERY alone. I don't have any friends here, I don't know where my family is. No one talks to me. Please don't go. I'm alone. I don't have anyone."
My supervisor hugged her and looked straight into her eyes. "You have me. I will ALWAYS be your friend."
Jean then turned to me. "Will you be my friend too? Please?"
I hugged her and told her I would be honored.
Then let them walk away so I could gain control over the tears, as I looked at the small, nearly empty room that she lived in every day. Because although she has dementia, it didn't make her feelings any less real, or the pain she felt any easier. 
And I was feeling it for her.
And I thought to myself, "I CANNOT do this job. I'm quitting tomorrow."

Of course I won't, but its definitely not what I thought it would be. I thought I would be more occupying them, entertaining them, etc. I didn't realize that for 8 hours a day, I would be living with them. Not detached, but rather doing everything together. The fear, the unknown, the oftentimes frightening-ness of dementia, we do it together. We drink coffee together, play bingo together, watch movies together and talk about life together.
And as one touched my arm at dinner and said, "I missed you so much over the weekend. I'm SO glad to see you here today, will you sing for me again?"
I felt an awful, awful feeling of panic.
Because I couldn't help but love all the 98 year old sweetness of her. She was genuinely glad to see me. She missed me and liked me.
And I knew right then and there. 

Shit. 

I'm going to love you, and my heart is going to get very involved. And you will most likely be gone in the not too distant future.

I'm going to love you deeply, and then grieve your loss. THIS is what I'm signing up for.

But maybe thats what love, real love is. Or at least a taste of it. 
Maybe real love is hurting with someone. Not from a distance, but right alongside it, feeling it, shouldering it, to whatever degree you can. And maybe, somehow, that feeling it along with them makes the hurt a little easier to bear. Knowing that how terrifying something is, they are not bearing it alone. 

And then honoring them and the life that they lived by tremendous sorrow when they leave this earth. And allowing the pain to be a testament that their life mattered. That they mattered.

And making the deliberate choice to do all of that for someone who likely may not remember you tomorrow. Or 3 months from now. Giving and loving for the sake of giving and loving. Expecting absolutely nothing in return.

Maybe every time we love like that, we expand our capacity as a person to feel and love and give and be. 

And understand the love of God a little more.