For me, one of the most compelling elements of the mass is the sharing of intentions. I find comfort in knowing that we are uniting in prayer for the wisdom and well-being of our nation, our church, our world-wide community. But even more, I am moved by the personal prayers that come from the individual members of the congregation each Sunday as they stand and request before their brothers and sisters in Christ healing for a family member with cancer, share celebration over a recent birth, or speak loss and confusion over an aging and ailing parent. There are tears, there is laughter, sometimes applause. Sunday by Sunday as the litany goes on, we often recognize the intention before the speaker makes the petition. This one will speak about leukemia, this one for the youth group, this one about hand guns and violence. I feel sorrow for their sorrow, joy for their joy, and I have stood with my own petitions for loved ones. But always I am touched by the reaching out, by the comfort of community.

Last Sunday I was sitting beside my godmother, listening with ears pricked to the personal intentions. My ears pricked more as I heard a familiar name being mentioned by a man standing to my left. Although she was not a member of our parish, her name was known there for her tireless volunteer work for the food pantry. She was known to me as one of the seniors I visited at the Catholic retirement home where I volunteer. Ms. Margaret. She had died the previous week, and the intentions were for her soul and for the comfort of her family in their loss.

She died on the feast of Corpus Christi, the Sunday that I was singing at the front of the church with the gospel choir, swaying, clapping, and praising God. I’d like to think that I gave Ms. Margaret a little bit of a joyful send off that day. I was — I am, quite fond of her. I was aware her departure was growing imminent. During my last actual visit with her I saw the tell tale signs around her eyes, the withdrawal into the shadows from which there is no return. I’d seen it before in my parents and in a co-worker. The following week when I walked past her room, she wasn’t there. Her name was still on the door, but the furniture had been rearranged. I didn’t know if she had gone to therapy or to a doctor’s appointment, and there was no one around to ask at the time, but I made a mental note of it. Now I knew why.

Before I began my visitations with Ms. Margaret, I was given a brief — very brief — description by the sister in charge of volunteer assignments. She told me Ms. Margaret was “a career woman with an interesting life.” But just a few minutes into my first visit I became aware that her short term memory had all but deserted her. As I tried to engage her in conversation about her life in the retirement home, I realized that at that moment she believed she was back in a hospital, nursing in a children’s ward. So — she had been a nurse. When I told her I was a volunteer, she thought I meant a volunteer at the hospital where she worked. Our first conversation was about the duties of working a shift and getting along with other staff. Although out of context, the instruction was practical and compassionate.

On another visit I asked about the framed photographs of children in her room. She had no names, no reference for them, the children in her present life. Instead, she began to tell me about the children in the ward where she believed she was still working, instructing me as to the specific care they required. One little boy cried unless he could sleep in the same room as his sister. Another little girl would sleep only with a favorite stuffed animal. Although these children are now at least my age, possibly older, they unquestionably received tender loving nursing at the hands of Ms. Margaret.

On yet another visit I learned how her father used family connections and business savvy to ensure that any of his children who desired such, daughters included, received a college education. In that hour I heard the same story in a number of iterations, but always with the same theme. Her father had done her an act of loving service by sending her — a girl — to college and she was still grateful.

Other conversations touched on the borders of random memories: young men going off to war, the first time she saw an airplane, children playing in a yard, twelve family member living in the house. But she always came back to the same topic — nursing.

Usually when I visited her she was dozing in her chair and I had to gently wake her to engage her in conversation. I wondered many times if it was the right thing to do. Why not leave her in her reverie rather than bring her back to a state of confusion? Did my visits do anything — stimulate her brain, shorten her day, help her relive happier times? Did she have any memory of a visitor, any recollection that someone took interest in her? As I left the room, stepped out into the hallway, I would turn around and see her already sleeping again in her chair.

I raised my quandry to my husband, who has spent most of his adult life working in social services, and whom I have come to treasure as my ethical sounding board and moral compass. What difference do my visits make, I asked him? That’s a good question, he replied, adding that there are theories that volunteer work does more to improve the life of the giver than the receiver. Well, that was true. I had gained a great deal of admiration for a woman who had been a professional pioneer and given her life to service of others. But I wanted to do something for her. What could that be?

After I learned of Ms. Margaret’s death, I looked up her obituary. I learned, among other things, that she lived to the age of 89 (as did my mother), that she was educated in Catholic schools, and that she earned her nursing license through the Army Nurses Corps program. She had over 100 nieces and nephews (who knew?), and of the original nine siblings, a brother and sister survived her.

After talking to residents and staff at the retirement home, I learned she and her surviving sister, also a career woman, never married and had shared an apartment for most of their lives, with the sister later becoming a caretaker.  The sister is now a resident of the same retirement home with a room on the same floor. Even in their last years they found a way to stay together. My heart ached for the sister. The void in her life will be profound — beyond words.

What difference did I make? Perhaps my visits didn’t add to the quality of Ms. Margaret’s life (although I would like to believe they did). But my brief visits with her were enough to make me want to share time with her sister, to learn more about these pioneering women who went to college in the 1940s, who participated in the war effort, and who devoted their lives to the career of caring for other people’s children. Next week when I visit the retirement home I will stop by the sister’s room and, if she is open to company, I will ask her to tell me her memories of Ms. Margaret. Any and as much as she wishes to share.

One of my favorite bumper stickers proclaims, “Not All Who Wander Are Lost.” I’ve taken a little liberty with that to title this post “Not All Who Wonder Are Lost.” I wondered what difference my visits made to Ms. Margaret. Perhaps, for her, those were efforts lost. But  I realize now I was simply being prepared to take up another path, and, perhaps, with God’s grace, I can assist with last Sunday’s prayer intention to address the grief of her family. And I ask for your prayers in that endeavor.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate