One day a week the clergy of Swanvale Halt visit one of the sheltered accommodation places or care homes around the parish and take a communion service, including hymns. This week I was at the home where most of the residents are in varying states of confusion. Usually one or two of them join in with the singing; this week I, the lady who comes to help, and the congregation member who battles loyally with whatever keyboard happens to be to hand, were alone in our warbling and, things being what they are, you couldn't really hear much other than me. Add to that the inconsequent and incoherent conversations taking place in parts of the room and it becomes something to get through rather than take pleasure in. I wonder what on earth is going on for our congregation. I suppose they want to be there, or they'd leave (some do. Some leave and come back). But how on earth could you decide rationally what you're achieving by all this, and whether the time could be better spent?
At Lamford I used to take a service in one of the care homes which grew out of visiting one of the residents individually: that seemed to make sense, and usually, until near the end of my time there, there were a couple of folk who were sufficiently compos mentis to make it all seem worthwhile. But at least at Swanvale Halt the residents seem cheerful and placid. At Lamford numbers of them couldn't stand each other. One day George kept asking, very forcefully, whether he could 'go back to Ashford!' 'Shut up, George, it's church!!' Cis shouted back at him.
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You don't have to understand rationally. You have to have faith. For huge numbers of people with dementia, the familiar is not only reassuring, but keeps their brains going. I know one lady who can hardly speak, does not recognise her kids, but can sing the hymns she knew as a kid. Keep going - your reward will be in heaven.
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