TEN YEARS AGO, I was busy in my Minneapolis office, and I didn't really have much time to make a nursing-home call. But Howie was asking if I'd go with him, and I hated to turn Howie down. Howie was about 80 years old, a burly former Minnesota Gopher lineman with a raspy voice and a gentle heart. He'd given his career to serve kids as a public school principal, and now as a senior citizen he was continuing to pour his life into other people. Howie taught me a lot about ministry. On this particular day, Howie was suggesting that we go visit his friend Manley, who was also the dad of a friend of mine. Since the nursing home was nearby, I thought I could squeeze in a few minutes. I knew that Manley wasn't in great shape physically. He was another Gopher football player, a huge bear of a man in an era long before weightlifting and steroids. Several years before our arrival in Minneapolis, Manley had a very serious stroke and permanently lost the ability to walk. Over the years, other strokes had crippled him further, and diabetes complications had necessitated the amputation of one leg. At the time Howie and I visited him, he had a very limited ability to communicate, and if I read him correctly, not too much desire to continue breathing.
Howie and I showed up in the full-care section of the nursing home. It was a spotless facility, with a strong antiseptic smell that almost succeeded in covering up the odors inevitable in such an environment. We marched down the white linoleum hallway and checked in at the nurses' station. They were thrilled that someone was visiting Manley and hustled right over to get him. The rubber tires of his wheel- chair squeaked loudly on the sterile floor.
Though Manley was surely just a shell of his former self, he was still a very large man. He smiled at us, and obviously recognized Howie. We wheeled him back to his room where it was quieter and we could speak more easily.
Howie was a little uncomfortable with his old friend, but gamely tried to carry on conversation. Since Manley's tongue was partially stroke-frozen, dialogue was difficult. At first we pestered him with questions. His mental abilities were clearly intact since he knew when we had asked a question, and tried his best to answer. Usually he could get out three or four words, and then get stuck and begin to stutter badly. By the time the stutter had cleared, Manley would be visibly frustrated and his train of thought totally lost.
Without planning it, Howie and I switched from asking questions to having a light conversation in front of Manley about things he would remember (his family, the church, football) and then left gaps where he could respond or not. This worked far better, and Manley seemed to enjoy our array of topics and pitched in with a few words here and there. The stutter still plagued him. I told him a little about myself, confessing that I hadn't been in Minneapolis for very long and was still trying to become a Viking fan and a Packer despiser. That actually elicited a large smile and laugh.
After 20 minutes, it felt like the visit had been about long enough. We didn't want to overstay Manley's endurance. Howie said, "Why don't we pray together?"
Manley nodded, and Howie and I each grasped one of his big hands. Howie plunged in praying out loud, and when he was done I followed. Before either of us could say "Amen," and thank goodness we didn't rush it, Manley's deep voice spoke up from the wheelchair.
Honestly, I can't describe the feeling that came over me as Manley began to pray. "Dear Jesus," he started. "Thank you for bringing these friends here today." Something extraordinary was happening. Manley continued to pray, his speed and confidence increasing as heartfelt prayer rolled out of him. He never paused, never hesitated ... and never stuttered. Not once. He prayed for perhaps three or four minutes, and I can't tell you exactly what he said because I was so overcome by the sense that I was experiencing a miracle.
When Manley was done praying, I suggested we close with the Lord's prayer. I guess you'd have to say Manley led us, since his voice was the loudest and strongest and once again without a single stutter or pause.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil; for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. men."
Rarely have I prayed the Lord's Prayer since that time without thinking of locking hands with a couple old Gopher linemen.
When we said our goodbyes to Manley, they were mostly one-sided since now that he was not praying, his old enemy - the stutter - had returned. He smiled and waved as the nurse gently moved his wheelchair away. I never saw him again before he died. Howie and I walked back down Antiseptic Hall, our mouths closed and the loud sound of our footsteps unable to distract us into speaking. When we reached the door, Howie opened it and looked at me, tears lapping at the edges of his eyes. "That was sure something," he said. I couldn't actually answer because I was crying too hard, but yes, it was sure something.
Dan Baumgartner is the senior pastor at Bethany Presbyterian Church on Queen Anne Avenue. This article is reprinted with permission from the Bethany Briefs.[[In-content Ad]]
