It’s been ten years since we bought the old Chelsea House, a retirement home in our neighborhood that had fallen into disrepair. It seemed an insurmountable task, turning this decrepit place into a home and convincing these hurting people to trust us, especially since we were moving into the building with them. When I see the seniors getting on the bus to go shopping or chatting happily in the lounge, I amazed at what God has done. He built this house, and none of our labor was in vain.
Each floor had its own feeling, its own personality. Sixth floor was the worst. The owners seemed to have put their craziest, most unmanageable seniors on six. I had cleaned every other floor, so there was no avoiding it. At least I had help today. Terry was new, from Iowa, and easily spooked, but it was better than cleaning alone.
We wheeled our cart down the hallway, stopping at the first room. Terry’s eyes widened with horror. “Not the barking lady!” “Hey,” I said, “her name is Jenny.”
My guess was that Jenny had Tourette’s. When she came in each afternoon she looked like a nice little grandma home from shopping. Only then she would jerk and spew forth expletives my grandmother had never even heard of. She seemed resigned to it, this constant humiliation. She’d buy a candy bar from the vending machine and go straight to her room, looking ashamed.
Terry and I stood there for a while. I took a breath and knocked. The door opened, just a crack, and Jenny peered out.
“Jenny, can we clean your room?” I smiled hopefully. The door slammed. Then, it opened. She gestured for us to come in. “Um, I’ll just stay out here and watch the cart,” Terry said. I stepped in and Jenny shut the door behind me.
She motioned for me to sit, and sat down across from me on her sagging bed. She smiled and folded her hands across her lap. The room was neat but it still looked awful. Her window shade was brown and stained, and there was a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Jenny acted pleased that I was there. She smiled and nodded at whatever I said. But her composure didn’t last. She turned her head and covered her mouth as if to cough and blank, a swear word. She looked back at me nervously.
I got up. “OK, Jenny, let’s change your sheets and vacuum.” She nodded, smiling. I went out into the hallway to get sheets off the cart. I heard the door slam.
“Jenny?” I knocked. No response. I knocked again. Nothing. It was quiet for a while, and then the swearing started. I looked at Terry and sighed. “Let’s go.”
After lunch we went to clean Fred Clasby’s room. He was pleasant, but confused. I’d seen him wandering the halls, dressed in bright colored suits and striped shirts. The other seniors said he had been a vaudeville performer.
Fred wasn’t home, but his room was unlocked. When I opened the door, Terry gasped. Piles of clothes, newspapers, and garbage were everywhere. The smell of feces was overwhelming.
“Okay,” I said, pulling on my latex gloves. “Let’s do this.” We started picking up garbage and tossing it into bags. Roaches were everywhere, crawling up our legs, in our clothes. There was nothing to do but ignore them.
I soon realized it was hopeless. I called Greg in the office and asked him to come up and look. He was appalled.
“I could work until midnight, Greg, and only make a dent. He can’t sleep in here.”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “We just fixed up a room upstairs. Let’s move him up and we’ll work on this later.”
So we moved Fred upstairs, and got him settled. Terry and I stayed with him until about eight, reassuring him, until he fell asleep. We went downstairs for a break, sitting in weary silence over PBJ’s and instant coffee.
Terry jumped as Greg’s voice sputtered over the radio.
“Someone’s crying in 631. I think it’s Fred.”
When we got there, Fred was lying on the floor, still in his pajamas. He must have wandered back after we left.
Greg whispered, “I think his hip is broken. I’ll call the ambulance.”
I sat down on the floor and put Fred’s head in my lap. “It’ll be okay, Fred, I promise.” He was moaning and crying a little. My tears began falling on his face. “I’m sorry, Fred. I should have stayed with you.” Roaches were crawling on both of us. I brushed them off his forehead but I just let them crawl on me. I was past the point of caring.
When the ambulance arrived the EMTs looked around with disgust. “How could you let an old person live like this?” one asked. I just shrugged.
When I got home that night I threw my clothes away. I stood in the shower, wishing hot water could wash the day away and make it turn out differently.
My roommate came in.
I tearfully told her the events of the day, explaining how frustrated and helpless I felt.
“It’s not your job to fix everything, Becca.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Becca,” she said, “I’m serious. You’re doing this to serve God. Bottom line. Nothing else matters.”
I sighed. She was right. I thought about how I felt when things went well. I got such a rush out of fixing and saving. Once again I had missed the point, losing sight of why I was doing it all. Leave it to me, I thought, to do the grossest, most unrewarding work there is for selfish motives. I spent some time praying, and then, comforted, I fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 29, Issue 119 (2000), p. 14
© 2000 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
Electronic version may contain minor changes and corrections from printed version.