This story is written with Joe, Pat’s brother’s permission.
My Friend Pat
Pat and I go back many years. She was my roommate on many of our missionary trips. This girl had the best, easygoing, funniest personality. Aside from all those wonderful attributes, she’s a gifted singer. I loved being around her. It has been some time since it was discovered that she had dementia. After a brain scan the doctors thought it best that she no longer drive. She was very upset about this decision, but she complied. When the illness progressed she had to give up her comfortable home and was moved to a memory care facility.
First Visit
On a busy street in Anaheim I made a left turn to pick up Pat for breakfast. She was already in the lobby of the building, waiting for me. We headed to Katella Bakery and Deli for the best breakfast. Our conversation was a little scattered because I have the tendency to jump from one subject to another; Pat politely listened. Nevertheless it was a joyful experience. We ran a few errands, and when we returned to the facility I promised to visit soon. Shamefully, I did not. It would be another eight months before we met again.
Second Visit
Pat’s brother Joe oversees all her living arrangements, so when the first memory care facility raised their prices, he had to scramble to find a new place. This place was much bigger and more secure. Visiting my friend at this facility was different; I had to go through several security doors before I reached Pat. In her usual manner, Pat was gracious and loving. I talked about our past experiences on the missionary trips, but at times I noticed her fade into another dimension. She brought me to a humble state of mind, and my love for her only escalated because of her beautiful heart. She never stopped smiling.
Third Visit
Again Joe was faced with an unreasonable price increase, so Pat was moved to a board and care facility. It had been more than a year since I last visited Pat. Not really knowing what to expect, I prepared to see my friend listless and feared that she would no longer recognize me.
In my usual fashion, I got lost and could not find the home. After putting the address on the GPS, I made it to the front of the home. This was a beautiful, middle-class neighborhood where the pride of ownership revealed the charm of its homeowners. The home is privately owned and operated, so clean you could eat off the floors.
After being warmly greeted, I signed my name as a visitor and Pat and I walked to the patio to visit. Her slightly grey eyes were filled with joy. She looked great! She was dressed in a purple velour hoodie with matching shoes and blue jeans. Pat was always big on shoes, she loved her shoes: some gold, some silver. She was definitely a shoe horse!
I talked about our old ministry days, how a mutual friend of ours had taken over, and that the ministry was going to the Holy Land this year.
On the last trip to the Holy Land, Pat was my constant companion. Walking through the streets of the Old City was by far one of our favorite times.
Whenever I traveled to the Holy Land, I always collected prayer requests. Some of these petitions came with specific instructions as to where the person wanted them left. I had several prayer requests that needed to be left at the Church of The Holy Sepulcher in the Old City. When I shared this information with my friend Pat, she mentioned that she had some petitions for the same place. It was our last night in Jerusalem, and we were leaving for the airport around noon. The Church of The Holy Sepulcher opens at 6:30 a.m., so Pat and I devised a plan.
Getting up extra early, we decided to take a taxi to the Old City. We were on a mission to pray and leave the prayer requests at the Tomb of Jesus. Not to be discouraged, we decided not to share this information with any of the team members.
Lost In Translation
When the taxi driver arrived, we told him where we needed to go. The man did not understand any English, and between Pat and me, we only knew one Arabic word. The driver dropped us off at the Damascus Gate, which is the main entrance to the Muslim quarters. This gate was unfamiliar to us; the gates we use and are familiar with are the Jaffa Gate, the Lion’s Gate and the Dung Gate.
The Muslim Quarters
It was early morning, so I could smell the strong Arabic coffee brewing in private homes. Both Pat and I know the Old City pretty well, but this gate was throwing us off. We walked in deeper and still had no real direction as to where we were or where we were headed. Suddenly a loud, rowdy group of young Arab men coming in from a late night were headed toward our direction.
We were sitting ducks who did not know where to turn to avoid this uncomfortable encounter. Then suddenly a man appeared from out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?” he asked. I told him that we needed to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Without hesitation he said, “Follow me.” Without consulting or questioning, Pat and I followed the man.
The Angel
The man led us out of the Damascus Gate, and we walked a distance outside the city walls until we reached the New Gate. From there we followed him through the fresh meat section of the Old City. When we reached the end of the corridor the man raised his arm and pointed to the right. He said, “This is where you turn to get to the church. This is as far as I can go.”
The Arabic man then disappeared. Both Pat and I came to the realization that we had had an encounter with an angel. We walked into an almost empty church, where we prayed for several hours. We completed our mission by leaving the prayer requests at the Tomb of Jesus.
Dear Lord, thank You for Joe, Pat’s brother, who lovingly cares for the wellbeing of his sister. I pray for all families who are struggling with this disorder. May God continually guide them as they make decisions for their loved ones. Amen.
