His Highness helped deliver Meals on Wheels to local elderly and shut-ins a couple of years ago. He told about one apartment in which the lady called for him to come on in.
"Just set it on the table here," came a voice from the couch. She was facing away from him, but as he approached, he saw bare feet...bare ankles...bare calves...bare knees...
"I didn't wanna see any more!" he confided later. "I just wanted to get out of there!" He dropped the food and ran out the door.
I pictured that scene as I caroled at nursing homes with my out-of-town friends. Most residents had gone to bed by the time we arrived, but one elderly man's door was open just a crack. I saw that he was sitting on his bed, and I prayed he wasn't in the midst of disrobing. That being the case, I wasn't sure if I should smile at him or not.
He didn't do much wiggling or squirming during the first song, so I figured he was safely in a semi-permanent state of dress. I began glancing up from my music and met his eyes with a smile. When the song ended, he opened his door and shook his cane at us--a twinkle in his eye. "Bah humbug!" he cried gruffly, and those who hadn't seen his eyes stepped back a bit.
He then joined us in our serenade until the group marched on down the hallway. And something kept me back.
Ever have those moments in which you know you have to do something, and you'll regret it if you lose the moment? I'm not fond of germs or public displays of affection toward strangers, and nursing homes are rife with such things. I didn't even know what I was going to do as I moved in toward him--but my arm knew it needed to curve itself around his stooped shoulders and back, and his arm slid around me.
I don't know if I whispered "Merry Christmas" or "Thank you," but he reciprocated, and we meant the same thing: Thank you for sharing this love.
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