Faithful

This morning, he got up by himself, went to the restroom and then changed out of his pajamas into sweatpants, made the bed and came out to tell her "good morning!" She smiled and hugged him. Then she made him breakfast and later helped him to shower. She was unfailingly kind and gentle. He was consistently appreciative and good-natured. Then they stood and later sat side by side as they went through his daily exercises.

Now I can hear them in the other room. Her voice, clear and succinct as she reads from the scriptures. I walk past and see them -- he on the recliner, with a small folding table in front of him, she on the other side, the Bible and a devotional booklet on the flat surface between them. I sit back down and hear her begin to pray -- again, though I'm several rooms away, I hear her clearly -- asking the Lord to bless their children, various ministries around the world and for their church and their country. A pause. And then I hear his voice. It is clear, still sonorous, but no longer succinct. The stroke has stolen the words that were his pleasure and livelihood. I can only understand about one word in five. But still I hear him pray. "Heavenly Fadder...we pray...bless...thank you."

Some of my earliest memories are of him praying -- after dinner with the family, and at times when I walked by his study to see him on his knees, praying too quietly for me to overhear the words.

The Message translates Romans 6:26 as:

If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. [The Holy Spirit] does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans.

I know that it doesn't matter if I can understand. After all, he's not praying to me.

Now I hear them singing "You are my sunshine," "Thank you, Lord," and even "Happy birthday."And practicing words and sounds. This was not what they planned. But they understand the word "faithful."