On Friday Ken and I went on a short road trip that we should have taken last Spring—to Winona, Minnesota, where we visited my sister-in-law Esther. Esther is the widow of my oldest brother Carmen who died about a year a half ago. The basics of their story is that he was a pastor, she was a teacher who went into administration, and they raised five wonderful children. But there’s more to the story than that, of course.
I’ve become our primary photographer—and so often the moment misses me altogether. I didn’t think to take a picture of Esther as she looks today.
I'm not fond of using the word cute to describe older people—it seems to trivialize them. But even with serious problems and although on a great deal of medication, I have to admit Esther is cute.
She became part of our family when I was in high school. She was beautiful, reserved, talented, and competent. She sang solos—with a voice that could fill a large church. Now she’s tiny—even her voice—and shriveled—with hands twisted by arthritis, a complication from the aftermath of lyme disease. She also has Parkinson’s—although that seems under control. But perhaps the most serious condition is the collapsing skeleton—and that she fell just over a week ago and broke several ribs. Her fall meant a move from her daughter's home to an extended-care facility. I was afraid of what I’d find and truthfully, it wasn’t good.
But to my surprise, I wasn’t devastated. Her personality is still evident. Even when we all trooped down to the facility’s dining area for coffee and root beer floats. (My other brother David and his wife Betty had joined us. And Karen, the daughter who lies in Winona and son Mark who flew in from Wshington, D. C. were with us.) The hostess in Esther came alive as she sat in a wheel chair—unable to do anything. Frustrated and embarrassed by what she felt was the poor service she offered her guests, her gracious demeanor was endearing and cute.
She became anxious and confused at times, even telling us in her tiny voice about waking up surprised to realize, I was alive! Ken and I asked each other later if she was happy to be alive—or disappointed. We weren’t sure. We might look at her life as confined, as narrow and small—but she has important things on her mind.
And all the while, through frustration and confusion, hints of irony and humor—and a wry smile. She was herself, and she was cute.
When she grew tired, we left to visit Carmen’s grave before going to Karen’s home where husband Jason had prepared a wonderful meal. Here, from left to right at the table in all our hoary glory: me, David, Betty, and Ken.
We moved into the living room and Karen, who had been going through her parents things, brought out a scrapbook that included pictures from our childhood. David and I paged through, remembering our distant past. 
In our hotel room that night, just before 3:30, I woke up rejoicing in bed. Pure joy overwhelmed me, and I wondered why. Considering my personal status, I thought about my hip. It didn’t hurt. But I knew the joy was bigger than that. (You can check the last post to understand why the hip is significant.)
I thought of Esther’s smile. Even in her reduced state—she was herself. What a wonder.
I thought about the scrapbook. As David and I perused, a subject came up that’s painful for me, an ouchie from my childhood. David understood—he had experienced it as well—and he offered an explanation I found comforting.
But I decided the joy encompassed all of the above—plus. For over an hour before going back to sleep, I basked in the overwhelming sense of personally being in God’s will. And, difficult as circumstances are for Esther and her family, I sensed they are also in His care and His will.
We met David and Betty for breakfast in the morning before going to the extended care facility again for another good-bye on Saturday morning. Then I slept during most of our drive home.
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