The Tragedy of Losing Yourself

     The moment after I told my friend Jan to smile for the camera, I showed her the photo.     
     “Who’s that?” she asked.     
     “It’s you,” I said.     
     “Really?”     
     Jan didn’t know who she was anymore. I pointed to a photo on her wall. “That’s where you taught school in the Philippines.”     
     “Me?”     
     “Then when you returned you volunteered as a hospice chaplain.”     
     “You sure?”     
     I’m sure. I’ve known Jan for years, always observing her gentle ways. Once when we were out to eat, she picked up the tab for another woman who was hard-pressed for cash, while Jan wasn’t flush either.   
     She had wit. In her sixties, she attended a rock concert with younger women, wearing a fake nose ring just for fun. When little confusions set in, friends brought in food, made sure her bills were paid, and hired help for housework. Then that awful time came, and we cleaned out her home.     
     First it was assisted living. Then memory care, a cruel name because Jan had no memory to care for. When I visited, we’d sing, but she couldn’t remember the familiar words to “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Yet I knew Jan was still there, like a fragile caterpillar trapped in a dark cocoon.     
     Then it happened - the butterfly broke out of its shell and took wing. Jan slipped through the thin veil separating this world from the next. Now she knows herself better than ever and grasps what a friend she has in Jesus.   
     That's a great rescue to look forward to.