“Well, that was a big mess,” Dale whispered in my ear as he sat down beside me in the pew.
It was January 2015 and Dale was serving as lector in the chapel of our retirement community. He had just read the scriptures for the day and struggled with words more than he ever had before. The parts he read well were beautiful. But alongside those words, I could hear evidence of the ones the disease had begun to steal.
Words. They were Dale’s medium.
An enthusiastic speaker, an energetic conversationalist, a voracious reader, a quick-witted tease—words were how Dale engaged in the world.
They were his tools as pastor and chaplain: words of comfort at bedsides, eloquent prayers in worship, words of instruction and challenge in teaching and preaching.
Words filled our life together. Dale would wake up talking, sharing his thoughts about what he had been reading, or a new sermon topic, or his concerns about current issues. He filled notepads with words as ideas flowed. He filled his mind with words read in newspapers, magazines, and books.
When the disease took hold, sentences began getting twisted. Reading and spelling became laborious. Comprehension started to fade. Speech grew sparse.
Like the slow defoliation of a great tree, Dale’s words began falling away.
It’s been the most shocking to me of all the losses so far, and the most challenging. As instructions became impossible for Dale to understand, I’ve had to depend on his willingness to follow as I guide us through each day.
Now few words remain. And those that do are as precious to me as the first words of a baby to a mother. Cherished. “Thank you.” “I love you.” “You’re good!” “You ARE!” “I know you!” “That’s stupid!” (Well, some cherished more than others.)
Dale and I are finding our way on new ground, without the familiar canopy of words. In its place, there is light…space…where other expressions grow: an outstretched hand, a smile, a soft pat on the back, shared laughter, a song, presence.
And in that space, love abides, words or no words.