Today’s menu for the family Thanksgiving feast is largely
the same as it is each year. Granted, as an ambitious amateur chef, the
temptation is to make everything a little more special, add one little surprise
dish, or at least find some clever new twist on the tradition of giving thanks
around the table. (I’m sure there’s an app for that.) But the point of
gathering for Thanksgiving dinner is not to focus attention on the table
setting, the turkey recipe (Yes, some people use a recipe.), or the topics of
conversation—so long as we avoid the known and obvious points of controversy.
This year, I am seeking to present the usual in as usual a
manner as possible. I want to gratify the desire for a familiar family ritual
that allows those in attendance to enjoy some excess, to appreciate our
abundance, and to remember the security of routine amidst lives often
overwhelmed by seemingly random chance.
For the inspiration to attempt this boring consistency, I am
indebted to one of the more delightfully demented patients I see regularly.
Over the months, she has become more and more aware that she knows me from
somewhere. This is especially remarkable because some days she barely knows
herself. Sometimes she remembers bits of her history, specific places and vague
events, or images that almost give her a grasp on some story…yet not. Still,
more and more, whether scheduled to see her, or greeting her on my way to or
from other patients in the same facility in which she is a resident, she knows
that she knows me.
She doesn’t remember my name—not even from moment to moment
in the same visit. She sometimes wonders where she knows me from, because she
is sure she’s never been here before (“here” being a facility that has been her
home for years). And she does, at times, ask why I am bothering her when all
she wants to do is get back to her nap, whether she’d been sleeping or not when
I arrived.
But the other day she knew it was me, whoever she thought I
was, from across the common area in the facility. She recognized me as someone
she knew, even with my back turned, as I was speaking to care staff. Granted,
there’s not much I can do with my hair (what little remains). I used to
experiment with the length of my beard. And varying my fashion sense to fit
popular trends was actually a thing, once upon (too long) a time.
Yet whenever I see patients, I dress the same: button-down
collared shirt, sweater vest, and a sport coat. I keep my beard trimmed in the
same length and shape. And I try to greet the patient identically at each
visit. The familiarity helps, even with patients who have full command of their
mental faculties, but especially with those whose shifting perceptions can be
disorienting on their best days.
Why is this so important? For the same reasons as I am
seeking a boring consistency with Thanksgiving dinner today.
I want the focus to be on the people, the relationships, and
the secure sameness we celebrate while living lives that sometimes shift and
spiral in directions we cannot anticipate. Whether those lives seem a little
random, or get increasingly chaotic, or deteriorate into the dauntingly
disappointing, disorienting, and dysfunctional depths to which we all sometimes
sink…my prayer for each of us today is that we find some sense of sameness,
that we recognize the reality of regular routines, and that we celebrate the
security we feel from the familiar, even if only in a fleeting detail or two.
Thankful for the consistent love of God, despite my
frequently faltering faithfulness, I pray that my boring consistency helps make
me more effective as…
Your servant for Jesus’ sake (II Corinthians 4:5),
Wm. Darius (Bill) Myers
