The greatest gift one can give is that of truly devoted listening.  I find that to be true in all facets of my life, but especially so with the very young and the very old.

Tim and I recently visited his 102 year old grandmother in her nursing home in Des Moines.  We spent the first twenty minutes trying to engage her in group conversation that I am sure was gibberish.  She doesn't remember anyone from her current life because in her mind she is a twelve year old girl walking her horse, Bonnie, to her piano lessons in the grand old year of 1920.  As the family spoke, she grew more and more agitated and those around her grew more and more desperate for her to remember.  One memory.  One mention of Steve or Patty or Tim or Char or a singular name that would indicate she was truly with us, that she truly understood who we are and the year in which she's living.  It's a gift every family in every crappy Lifetime movie is given, that one last moment with a loved one in which they bust out every person's name with a vivid flash of life and everyone hugs and then the person dies but all are vindicated by the return of Memory.  Good old Memory.  The thing which ties us to this life, to this person, to who we perceive ourselves and our families to be.

When in actuality, we are much more than memory.  Memory is just a thing, a recollection of things which have happened.  At our essence, I imagine memory does not factor in a single bit.  Except, of course, that it can shape our ability to be courageous or fearful based on previous success or failure.  But when it is gone, we still exist.  We do not cease to be, I don't believe, simply because the context of history has disappeared.

So after a half hour of feeling fearful of overstepping boundaries, I sat next to Cleyla and we had quite a raucous conversation.  Out of pearly, glaucoma-ridden eyes she and I planned a party in which she would wear red and I would wear blue and we would bring a picnic basket.  Tim, we decided, could attend if he continued to be good, but the others would all be joyfully welcomed.  We had already finished the ham and Mom was finishing up the potatoes and we thought the best place might be down by the river, next to the old scraggly oak that tipped at such a precarious angle we were certain one day it would wash downstream.  In moments of worry, Cleyla would wonder if we were chatting too long, if she had missed dinner.  When I assured her Mom would certainly save her some, we continued planning, talking about the Christmas gifts we would buy the ghosts of a past only she recalled.

And so I found sitting in that room that as memory evades us, we do not cease to be at all.  We can still be storytellers and feel the joy of Christmas and the sweetness of fudge on our lips.  We can smile and laugh and be joyous, even if most of who we perceived ourselves to be has disappeared.  Although the lack of memory is a painful, debilitating fact to those who loved her most and knew her when she still "had her mind," I found our interaction to be meaningful and love-filled.  I found parts of myself in her and, deep in the secret recesses of my heart, wished we could throw that party together.  We told a good story, one so compelling I am certain we nearly dreamed it into existence.

The greatest gift we can give, indeed, is love.  Love not tied to the dreadful weight of memory.  Love not obstructed by our own wish for someone to be different than who they are.  Love fully entangled with a deep commitment to listen deeply and, especially, with the heart.