Pai Baane was a lovely lady in her nineties. When I was first called to her home, she was breathless, and her legs were quite swollen. Medicines to drain excess fluid and open up her lung passages gave much-needed relief. I was a frequent visitor to her home after that, and it was on one of those visits that I received her blessing.
It seemed like time stood still in the sanctity of that moment. Pai Baane gently rubbed my hands and uttered a beautiful blessing. As the words swept over me, I had a sense that I was on holy ground–that I was being brought into the very presence of God by an elderly person who sought my very best. It was a precious gift across generations, a passing on of something from the depths of one’s soul to another.
She died about a year and a half ago, and every now and then, when I drive past her village and look at that spot where she once sat, precious memories come rushing back. I can still picture her sitting on the porch of her simple wooden house and looking out at the mountains she loved.
Nestled in these mountains are the villages where I serve as a rural doctor, with the countryside as my hospital. Many of the people I care for have spent decades growing paddy in their fields carved out on the steep mountainside. The oldest person is about 103. Her children figured out her age by estimating how old she must have been when the Japanese were here during World War 2. She tells me that the medicine I give her for the pricking pain in her legs helps her sleep well at night.
This is a community where family ties run deep and respect for the elderly is a highly cherished value. The quiet sense of dignity so evident on the faces of the older people points to the beauty of a community that cares well for its most vulnerable. I feel privileged to be part of this community and contribute what I can to uphold and preserve this value that I, too, have learned to cherish.
The closest hospital is about three hours away, through rugged terrain and rough mountain roads. Reaching there is an ordeal for the elderly who often prefer being at home in their village even when they are very sick. So we do what we can with what we have.
There have been times when I have been called to a bedside of a very sick person and I think that surely the end is near. And yet, as we start treatment and pray with the family, I have seen time and again how God heals their body and restores their strength. They are among the most resilient people I have ever met. One elderly lady who recovered from a very severe pneumonia even offered to give me pumpkins from her next year’s crop.
Every care encounter with an elderly person, whether in the outreach clinic or by the bedside, is a unique opportunity for me to experience what it means to be truly human. When I see the trust that these dear ones place on me, I want to do all I can to honour that trust.
I want to be true to God who trusts me to care for them well. I have learned that what truly matters in life is not the abundance of what we have but the depth with which we love each other, care for each other, and serve each other. I am grateful for my elderly friends who welcome me into their hearts and lives and help me relive the beauty of this truth again and again.
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Thank you for highlighting the elderly so beautifully. As medicine pushes our life expectancy upwards, there are more and more saints who have a longer period of reduced “productivity.” It is important that we do not value life for its products but for Whom we image.