Last Sunday, a friend asked me if I was going blog about that morning’s service. The service, billed as “the service with too many river metaphors,” was rich with takeaway possibilities, so why not? I’m sure I can find an Alzheimer’s River in there somewhere.
Two thoughts from the sermon pushed themselves up for me, demanding attention like islands in the middle of a river. Both were spatial: beginning versus end and opposing banks.
Beginning versus end (north versus south)
At the beginning of a river (north for us), the water is fresh, mostly unpolluted. Standing in it, swimming in it, immersing yourself in its currents might be delightful. You would feel the strength of its current even though the river is still simple, young, and unmuddied.
During the southward journey, the river swells with complexities at each bend and through each community along its path, taking on more life, more volume, more pollution, and more mud.
Opposing banks (east versus west)
The waters on one side of a river can be very different from the waters on the opposing side. One side might be turbulent and fast-flowing, the other calm and easy. Your experience in a river depends greatly on where you are in it, not only the clean, calm north versus the muddied, fierce south, but also the turbulent east bank of the river (in our example) versus the calm west.
The sermon was written around social justice analogies and anecdotes, and they were perfectly delivered. I took in all of it, but that wasn’t what I took away.
I chewed on these two ideas a bit this week: the experience at the beginning versus the end of the river, and how you position yourself along the banks of the river as your journey down it.
Lately, most of my takeaways and metaphoric exploration relate to my mom’s journey, or at least the part of her journey that she shares with me. This sermon was no different.
I can’t take mom back to Minnesota, back to the beginning. We’re deep in the south, entering the mouth of the delta now, where we’re slowly splaying, losing bits and pieces in the dead zone as we work our way to the ocean.
I can’t stop the flow of the river, but I can help her find the less turbulent bank of it.
Last week, mom started cooking and left her pots on the stove unattended three times. At least three because we know of three burned or scorched food incidences. Mom is an energetic, multi-tasker. Even when she was in her thirties, she would get distracted and walk away from a pot on the burner. I reminded dad of the time when I was in high school, and the burned cabinets around the stove had to be repaired. It’s not all about the Alzheimer’s, but the Alzheimer’s makes the situation muddier, mightier, and not in a good way.
I can’t take mom to the beginning of the river, but I can help her drift towards the calmer bank. She loves to cook and we love her cooking. I believe working through tasks, like cooking a meal, helps her do vital brainwork and stay engaged in the present. I want her to keep doing as many things as she comfortably can. Although I can’t be here every day to help her cook, I can help her cook while I’m here. We can cook double and triple meals so that she can label and freeze them for later. When she wants to pull a meal together, she’ll pull out the labeled freezer packs and will feel good about serving food she cooked.
It’s not perfect, and she may pull together mismatched bags, but who cares? Mom and dad can float calmly on the west bank, enjoy a meal she prepared, and chew a little longer on the gifts that she has always given our family.
Into the ocean
I’m not ready for the ocean.
Not much was said about the very last part of the river’s journey, after it passes its most profound point in New Orleans and splays into the delta, spilling all its complex richness and all of its mighty might into the slow, vast, heaving of the ocean. I can’t control the speed of the journey of the Alzheimer’s River towards that ocean, but maybe I can help mom get a purchase in the overgrowth of the banks, pull into the calm waters, slow the journey a bit, share more memories, make more memories, and find more of the joy that this river allows.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018.
Ah, balm for the soul this morning!
That was a beautiful post. I was especially touched because I am a yoga instructor and yogini. One of my favorite teachers always tells us to “flow like the river” when we do our poses. Your story proves that rivers are metaphors for our lives. I hope the new drugs that were in the news this week about Alzheimers are promising for the future. Sending healing hugs to you and your mom on this challenging journey.
Thanks, Judy. We’re going to call mom’s neurologist about the new drugs.