Editors' Note:

Patti Asaad, in our opinion, is a pillar among women’s ministers of the ICOC. For years, despite living with a debilitating chronic illness and all the usual challenges that come with leadership in any large group, she has been faithful and enduring for many years as a senior women’s minister in the American churches, most recently in Texas. She has always been the embodiment of Southern grace — the kind of woman who turns heads, not only with the effortless poise of a true Southern belle, but also with the disciple-of-Jesus-brand of wise instruction ready on her tongue. She may bring the charm of magnolia blossoms and sweet tea to every room she enters, but God has also given her a sharp-as-steel wit and intellect. Over the years she has grown a backbone of courage and faith in her Lord that would surely inspire anyone who hears her story.

Now retired from full-time ministry, Patti has made time to hone and share her exceptional gift for writing. We are proud and privileged to repost some of her work here with her permission. It seems appropriate for us to begin with a piece that features Jennifer Lambert, a trailblazer and another pillar among the early waves of women’s ministers out of Boston from the beginning of our movement. Jennifer’s story of courage and faith is both empowering and uplifting. May the love and strength of our Lord fortify us all as we read and share these sisters’ stories.

Originally posted on Patty Asaad's blog.

Moments that Matter

Being Versus Doing 

Jennifer Lambert, Williamsburg, Virginia, USA

Everyone else in the meditation group quietly breathed and followed the leader’s directions. But after approximately three minutes, or as long as it took the meditation leader to say, “Breathe in, let it out,” a few times, I was crying uncontrollably.

The meditation group was at my mom’s continuing care facility. I don’t remember anything else the leader said until I heard, “OK, open your eyes, take two more deep breaths. Thank you for coming.”  And everyone left except me.

I was completely unglued

After wiping my nose again, I cried: “Who’s going to take care of me?!” I was completely unglued. 

It had hit me hard, perhaps for the first time, that my mom, the mom I had known for 60 years, was gone, and I was grieving, but I didn’t know it yet.  

The meditation leader had packed up, the recreational director had left, and the only woman who remained was the brand new, first-day-on-the-job director of memory care who didn’t know me and hadn’t met my mom. She tried to be compassionate for the ten minutes she could sit with me.

The best thing I could do for my mom was be with her

I returned to the dining area and sat with my mom as she finished her breakfast, but I couldn’t stop crying—for hours. I called my husband and best friend and talked with the social worker at the facility. I realized the best thing I could do for my mom was be with her. Even if we just sat in silence. 

Doing things for my mom had temporarily pushed down the truth that the mom I had known was gone.  Her body and some of her wit were still there.  She still knew who I was, yet she was gone. And I was really sad. That day, I realized that I was good at serving my mom but not good at simply being with her.  

Helping my mom made me feel useful, productive, and even loving, like a good daughter. I would buy her clothes, straighten her room, join her for meals, show her photos of her grandchildren, and go with her to community programs. I felt useful, and I liked it.

That meditation group took place six years ago. My dad had passed away earlier, and Mom had then transitioned from independent living to assisted living and finally moved into one bedroom in the memory care unit. 

I was struggling with my inability to help

I had helped her with each of her moves.  And now it was time for me simply to be with her.  She would forget within minutes that I had even been to visit, yet she was always happy when I appeared again.  Because I lived three hundred miles away from her and worked full-time, I could only see her for several days every few months.  In between visits, I would mail her clothes I had found on eBay.  It made me feel better, but now I think I was struggling with my inability to help this new version of my mother.

On what turned out to be my mom’s last full day of life, I was sitting in her room at the clinic as she breathed through an oxygen tube.  She was watching the weather station on a cold January day.  A map popped up on the screen showing the temperature in every city.  In each city, the temperature was between 12-15 degrees.  So cold.  My mom, who was not saying much those days, said, “Well, that’s consistent.” It makes me smile to remember that. I’m glad I was there to hear her say that. It was so HER.

My siblings and I cleared out her bedroom after she passed.  We each took items that were special to us.  When I opened her closet, I was stunned to realize that through my years of doing for her, I had bought approximately ten times more clothes than she could have ever worn or needed.  The clothes were left in the closet for other residents to choose and enjoy.

Human beings, not human doings

I’ve heard it said that we are “human beings, not human doings.” That helps me along with the Psalm that says, “Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10 NIV) It’s not easy to be still, but Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28 NIV) Jesus invites us to come and just be with him.

God has a way of reminding us again and again of essential lessons.  On September 16, 2019, exactly eight months to the day after my mom passed, my doctor found a cancerous tumor on my pancreas.  

A friend had told me I was yellow and needed to go to the ER.  After tests, the doctor said, “Something is pressing on your bile duct; that’s why you are jaundiced. It could be a gallstone or something else, but we will figure it out.”  

I became the one who could not do anything for anyone

The next day, a more in-depth ultrasound revealed the tumor in my pancreas. Later, I underwent a complicated surgery, and after recovering from that, I endured chemotherapy. Throughout treatment, I lost 35 pounds, most of my hair, and all my energy. 

I became the one who could not do anything for anyone. My husband took care of me for the many months of treatment and recovery. I had to allow people to help me and be content with a few phone calls a day or brief visits with others. 

It’s still a service and a gift, just a different type

I’m still learning that whether I’m sitting with a person or with God, it’s still a service and a gift, just a different type. In fact, it can be more valuable than an activity I check off my “to-do” list.  

I now have four grandchildren, with a fifth on the way. I want to be with them, be present, watch, and listen. Yes, I do buy clothes and toys for them, too, but I hope that the time I spend with them is what they remember most.