Memaw's back at my house this week. She sits in her familiar spot reading and resting. This time I knelt down next to her, reading a picture book like I did last time she visited and afterwards, just sat there. I didn't say anything. I didn't rush to get something done. I smiled at her and waited.
She sat quiet for a few minutes, then began to talk. She asked me about some items sitting in the room. "Do you sew on that machine?" she asked. I admitted I haven't sewn much. "Who's coat is that? It's pretty." I explained it was my husband's.
She paused for a long time. Usually, that's my cue to get up. But this time I decided to just wait and see what happened. In a bit, she started talking again. She told me stories of her childhood. Some I'd heard many times and others I didn't remember. I listened. She paused again for a long time, and then just like before, started talking again. She asked me about my kids (in the adjoining room) and my husband; she even inquired after his mother. This interaction went on for over an hour--the longest conversation since I started helping with her. It felt like we were in the past, visiting. Slower, but steady.
She finally did tire and reached for her Bible. But I noticed for the rest of the evening, she wore a faint smile. It reminded me of when I've had an outing with a friend or quality time with my husband; I find myself smiling as I go about my work.
I mulled it over and thought about all those times she's come to my house when I've been busy, in a hurry, or too rushed to wait. Isn't that how we are? We rush, we hurry, we run past things that matter.
As the days have passed, I've continued paying attention. I now see what I missed before. She wants to talk, I just didn't listen long enough. I wasn't giving her the time it takes for her to process. I was rushing a slowed-down mind in my hurry-up world. I'm thankful for her presence to remind me to soak in each moment; to stop, sit and listen.
