One day my Aunt Shefra went to visit this old man. I guess I should tell you that in my family everyone is an Aunt or an Uncle – that’s just the way we are. Well, anyone who is the same age as you is a cousin; and those who are a dozen or more years younger than you are nieces and nephews, which makes you an aunt or uncle to them. You might know the details – Uncle Mike is my mother’s brother’s wife’s grandfather’s baby sister’s second son. Or you might not be the kind of person who keeps track of all those details: you just know it’s Uncle Mike.

        So Aunt Shefra isn’t literally my Aunt, even though that’s what everyone my age and younger actually calls her. And her name isn’t literally Shefra, either, even though that’s what everyone still alive actually calls her. Her mother named her Shellie Frances, and her parents and older relatives called her that – never Shellie, always Shellie Frances – but when she was a young girl her friends took the first syllable off her first and middle names and glued them together to form Shefra, and that’s what everyone has called her for years now. I like it. It’s not like anybody else’s name.

Aunt Shefra felt a little nervous, when she went to visit that old man in the rest home. She had just been elected a Deacon, and the Deacons had agreed at their last meeting that one of the duties of Deacons was to visit and care for the lonely, sick, and shut-ins. Aunt Shefra believed that, and so she had determined that she was going to go to the rest home and make this visit this afternoon, and so she had walked up to him as he sat on his chair in the corner of the parlor of the rest home, and she had offered up her cheeriest greeting. The old man made no response at all. That made her a little more nervous, but she had already decided she was going to give this her very best. She introduced herself, and tried to strike up some kind of conversation by asking him how he was feeling. She thought maybe he couldn’t hear, so she said it all over again, louder. Still no response. So she leaned forward, nearly shouting her greeting into his ear. But he did not speak, did not look at her, did not move.

I suppose lots of people would have just shrugged at this point and headed for home. Or maybe they would just sit in silence for a few minutes or read a quick Bible verse, and then say, “Well, I just wanted to say Hi, I’ll see you again some time soon.” But for some reason Aunt Shefra decided not to let the awkwardness of the moment chase her away. She wasn’t quite sure why she decided that.Somehow it just didn’t feel right to give up this soon. She said some more about herself, told a little about her family and her job. It made no difference. She commented on the weather. Still nothing. Then she tried, “Tell me about yourself.”

Maybe because of her perseverance, or maybe because of the question, he seemed to rouse a bit. It was such a little response, she wasn’t sure if that glimmer of a reaction was really there or just in her imagination; but she wanted to hope that maybe he was trying to reply, or at least communicate something. So she said it again: “Tell me about yourself.” His mouth moved; Aunt Shefra was sure that he was trying to say something. She bent close; she focused all her attention, as he worked to speak. Finally the words came out, words that trembled with struggle and ache: “I don’t remember.”

            One quavering sentence is not a lot to pin your hopes on, but new Deacon Aunt Shefra came back next week and tried again. She kept on, week by week. Sometimes she was in a hurry and just breezed in, said hello, pressed his hand for a moment, and went her way. Sometimes she would stay for a while and converse, even though it made no difference at all that she could see, for on many days the old man made no response at all. But other times Aunt Shefra thought she might be on to something, because she’d get some kind of reaction. Most often without any words: just a look, a mumble, or a nod.

And then, every once in a while, it would happen. It might be after she had asked a question like, “Tell me about your family” or “Can you tell me what you used to do for a living?” She would see him working to articulate what he wanted to say. Could it be, please God, that this time he would manage to answer? And indeed he did answer: but it was once again those three plaintive words, in that tremulous voice: “I don’t remember.”

            How long would you think this could go on?

            With Aunt Shefra, resolute in her deaconship, it continued for six months. Those six months grew into a year. Then two years. Week by week Aunt Shefra faithfully went to see this old man. Because she was interested, she did some research. She found out about his family. She found out about his career. Then when she went see him, she would say, “I was reading about what you used to do a few years back.” Or “I found out some interesting facts about your family.” And then she would ask, “Can you tell me the story of how that all came about?” And then the light in his eyes, and the struggle to put it into words:and then, again, the “I don’t remember.”

            I sometimes wonder how long I would keep on trying, in a situation like this. Would I go on for two years, hoping for the miracle? I suspect I would come to the point of saying, “It’s no use. I’ve tried and tried. I really think there’s something there. But most of the time I don’t get anything at all by way of response; and at the best of times I’m not even sure I’m getting through. Maybe ‘I don’t remember’ is all he remembers how to say. And even if it isn’t, even if he’s still there, I just don’t know if I’ve got the endurance to keep coming back, week after week, knowing that there’s a pretty good chance that it isn’t making any difference at all.”

            And really, why wouldn’t a person come to the point of saying that? Suppose a person even managed to keep on faithfully checking in, week by week, for three years, or five, or more: that’s a pretty heroic commitment, and evidence of a deep and compassionate servant heart. But even with that, it would certainly be understandable that a person would end up saying, “There are limits to this, you know. I’ve done all I know how to do. I just can’t continue any longer.”

            Somehow, my Aunt Shefra never quite said that. As she kept going by to visit with the old man, somewhere along the line it became clear to her that even though this wasn’t happening quickly – and even though it maybe wasn’t ever going to happen at all – she was nevertheless in it for the long haul. She asked herself why, and she could not really come up with an answer: she could only acknowledge that she was going to continue, and that was that, whether or not she could ever explain why.

            Once she had reached that conclusion, the next step was obvious. She began to bring her children with her. Ha ha, I remember how much they complained about that! They couldn’t believe their mother would make them do this, go visit this old man they didn’t know anything about. Why should they have to take part in this? She was the deacon, not them, and it was boring, it was creepy, it was So Unfair! But with the same persistence with which she had kept coming to visit the old man, she persisted with them as well. She taught them the stories she had learned from her research about the old man. She taught them how to ask the questions about his life, how to talk to him even if he said nothing in reply. She taught them to be faithful in coming to visit, week by week. She taught them all this: so that when she had died and gone to heaven, they would be there, teaching their children, who would teach their children, who would teach their children, on to the third and fourth generation, to keep persevering in faithfulness, coming to visit with this old man, in the expectation that some day, some day, no matter how distant, the day would come when he would say, “I remember!”

            Perhaps the kingdom of God is like an old man in a nursing home, with a deacon and her family that come to visit him; he is beloved from generation to generation, and yet he does not remember. From generation to generation God’s people remain faithful in obedience, in prayer, in hope that the day will come when God will stand forth, remember his people in their need, and work great miracles to save them and sustain them:but in the meantime, we just keep waiting, faithfully, for God to remember. Is that what God is like?

It is, at any rate, what my family is like. It is part of our consciousness that we live as a family that is many generations deep. My great-great-grandparents are my family; and their great-great-grandparents are as well. Their story is my story. My great-great-grandchildren have not been born; but my story is their story, and their story is mine. We are always thinking this way. The stories of who we are and what we have done and how we did it and how it happened to us: these are our stories. Whether it happened many generations ago or just last week, we own the stories. They are our stories. And in a special sense, the stories own us, too. Often the stories that happened last week make sense when we think about them in light of other stories, stories from centuries ago. And so we remember the stories, and we tell the stories to each other, from generation to generation.

So when Aunt Shefra was a teenager, she became interested in a story from long ago about another aunt. This aunt had almost the same name, and that’s what caught Aunt Shefra’s attention, and motivated her to learn the story from many generations ago about Aunt Shiphrah.

Once upon a time there was a young couple, Zvi and Ilana. Ilana was expecting their first child, and she was scared. She knew how babies are born. She knew it was the most natural thing in the world. She knew that she had come into the world this way, and so had all her brothers and sisters, and so had all the children laughing and playing outside her window in the evening, just before their mothers called them inside for supper. But she also knew that many women died in childbirth. Including her own mother, who had died just after Ilana’s baby sister was born.

And so when her labor started, Ilana tried to remain calm and let the contractions do their work, without becoming too anxious. But she did not succeed: she was scared. The labor pains were only uncomfortable when they began; they didn’t really hurt, not badly, not yet. But Ilana felt the fear starting to build up inside her, the terrible dread that these pains were going to tear her apart. And so she told Zvi to send for Aunt Shiphrah, who was a midwife.

The contractions had increased in intensity, and the interval between them had shortened, during the time it took for the neighbor boy to run to fetch Aunt Shiphrah. Even so, soon enough she came bustling in through the doorway, full of competence and assurance. Over the years Aunt Shiphrah had perfected a blend of bossiness and compassion: when Aunt Shiphrah told you to do something, you did it; but you did it in the knowledge that she really cared about you. So when Aunt Shiphrah said to Ilana, “Listen to me, girl. I want you to breathe along with me,” Ilana started matching Aunt Shiphrah’s slow rhythmic breathing: and her panic started to ebb away.

Aunt Shiphrah turned to Zvi. “Outside, son,” she commanded. “Men are good for a lot of things, but this isn’t one of them. Out you go. Send me in a couple of aunts to help out, that’s a good boy.” And Zvi was out the door, just like that: feeling awkward to be kicked out of his own house, feeling scared and wanting to be there holding hands with his bride and helping somehow, and feeling relieved that in this moment when everything was outside his control, someone with the experience and wisdom of Aunt Shiphrah was in charge:all those mixed feelings rolled into one bundle of confusion.

It took a few more hours, but indeed the baby was born, a healthy son. Both mother and baby were fine. The men were all shouting and laughing out in the street as if they were the ones who had done something strong and noble, and they were pounding Zvi on the back and congratulating him. The other aunts were fussing around the house, making sure Ilana was comfortable, and cooing over the baby, whom Zvi and Ilana named Ethan, which means enduring.

And on her way home, Aunt Shiphrah got arrested.     MORE