UCC Women’s Web-Site 

September Meditations 

Written by Elaine Blanchard 

www.ElaineBlanchard.com 

www.PorchSwingStories.com 

RevElaine@comcast.net 

 

Week 1: September 5-11 

 

Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18 

 

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me. 

You know when I sit down and when I rise up; 

you discern my thoughts from far away. 

You search out my path and my lying down, 

and are acquainted with all my ways. 

Even before a word is on my tongue, 

O Lord, you know it completely. 

You hem me in, behind and before, 

and lay your hand upon me. 

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; 

it is so high that I cannot attain it. 

 

For it was you who formed my inward parts; 

you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 

I praise you, for I am wonderfully and fearfully made. 

Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. 

My frame was not hidden from you, 

when I was being made in secret, 

 intricately woven in the depths of the earth. 

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. 

In our book were written all the days that were formed for me, 

when none of them as yet existed. 

How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! 

How vast is the sum of them! 

I try to count them—they are more than the sand; 

I come to the end—I am still with you.” 

 

 

Migration 

It was three o’clock in the morning. I was paged from the on-call chaplain’s room, called 
to respond to an emergency admission. Father of four children, a mechanic who owned 
his own car repair shop on the south side of town, member of a small Baptist 
congregation and a Cardinals fan; he was gone. Heart attack took him. No amount of 
chest percussions, intravenous fluids or prayer would bring him back to the family who 
leaned into one another, wilted by the shock of sudden grief. I was with them in their 


sorrow. So little I could do. One table lamp gave dim light to the small family room. We 
held hands and I read some scripture, prayed. I passed a box of Kleenex around the room, 
helped them make telephone calls and stayed with them until they decided to go home. 
Friends would know how to find them at home. Food could be prepared and eaten at 
home. Home would provide some privacy and a sense of belonging for their sadness, 
things that the unfamiliar hospital could not offer. I went outside and walked to the car 
with the widow and her two youngest children. The older children lived in St Louis and 
were already on their way to Memphis, back home. 

 

The hospital security guard was smoking a cigarette outside the Emergency Room 
entrance. His name, Toby, was written in bold print on his ID badge. I sat down on a 
bench beside him. We shared the silence and the darkness, both of us looking up toward 
the sound of Canadian geese calling out to one another. Their V formation was distinct 
and long, directed toward the south. .Looks like they leaving us, huh?. Toby put his 
cigarette out, grinding it on the concrete. 

 

.I was thinking they’re on their way home.. Sadness had collected around my shoulders 
the last few hours. I was wearing the grief of the family I’d just met, and I was aware of 
so many of my own personal losses. The weight of it pushed tears out of my eyes. I 
reached for a tissue in my pocket. 

 

Toby never moved but it felt as though the distance between us was shortened. .Home, 
for those geese, is wherever they find themselves. Birds, fish, little furry critters… they 
don’t need a mailing address to feel like they arrived, to feel safe and secure. The whole 
world’s been given to them and they know it. Every place is home.. 

 

I took a deep breath, realizing there was no reason for my tension. There was no shortage 
of air for my lungs. The sun was rising like it does every day. I smelled bacon and 
biscuits as the cooks in the cafeteria prepared for the breakfast crowd. Toby stretched, 
yawning loudly. And we both went inside carrying home into the new day. 

 

 

Elaine Blanchard 

www.ElaineBlanchard.com 

www.PorchSwingStories.com 

RevElaine@comcast.net 

 

Week 2: September 12-18 

 

I Timothy 1:12-17 

 

I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord, who has strengthened me, because he judged me 
faithful and appointed me to his service, even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a 
persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly 
in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are 
in Christ Jesus. The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came 


into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost. But for that very reason I 
received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost 
patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal 
life. To the King of the Ages immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever 
and ever. Amen. 

 

What’s the Emergency? 

 

My mother, Lois Eades, has Alzheimer's disease. She is ninety-three years old. She once 
taught Creative Writing, Advanced Grammar and Survey of World Literature to 
undergraduate students at Trevecca Nazarene University in Nashville. She has written 
several books, biographies and poetry collections. She has taken great pride in her 
capacity for memorizing scripture, poetry and passages from the classics. She could not 
be beat at Scrabble or Anagrams. She enjoyed playing the piano. She liked to show off 
her flexibility, sitting in the middle of the floor and putting her foot behind her neck; she 
would grin and ask, .Can you do this?. Of course we could not. She could walk four 
miles at a brisk pace along the wooded road by her rural home even after she was eighty 
years old. My mother worked hard to stay ahead and to stay alive in every way. 

 

She is now a resident in a nursing home and has been a total care patient for seven years. 
Anyone walking into her room today would see no more than a small rise under a sheet 
with bare bony legs. There is a head of perpetually tangled gray hair and unfocused eyes 
staring upward. Between meals, she chews on her gown, eating holes into the collar and 
neckline. She weighs seventy-four pounds. 

 

My mother has severe osteoporosis. She is fragile and nearly blind. Her left femur 
fractured and she was taken by paramedics to the emergency room at a local hospital. I 
drove my car behind the ambulance. I have been to this same emergency room with my 
mother for several falls and injuries. I have been beside her in the chaotic hallway, 
standing by a stretcher, while we waited hour upon awful hour to be assigned a room. 

 

Seven hours later, my mother and I were still waiting for a room to be assigned to her 
case. I went to the nurses’ station and asked if my mother could have a drink of water. 
The nurse never looked up from her chart as she asked, .Has the doc seen her yet?. My 
answer was clearly, .No.. Her answer was also clear, .Gotta keep her NPO until the doc 
writes some orders.. Not one time did a nurse look under the sheet that covered my 
mother. The diaper she was wearing filled with urine and the hallway filled with the 
strong acrid odor. The nurses who walked by us in the hallway treated my mother as if 
she were a post in the floor. They walked around her. 

 

I went to the cafeteria and purchased a cup of water and a straw for my mother and gave 
her a drink. I assisted the physician when he set my mother's fractured thigh. He taped 
two pillows to her leg. .That ought to hold it,. he said. She is too old to be a candidate 
for surgery. Two hours later I went to the nurses’ station where all eyes were focused on 
computer screens, and I asked that my mother be provided with some kind of privacy 
where I could change her diaper. Another patient, younger and more alert, was rolled out 


of a private room and my mother was rolled into his space while a nurse helped me turn 
and clean my mother. Dry diaper intact, we returned to our place against the wall in the 
hallway. When the tears came, I had no option but to sit on the floor and cry in plain view 
of strangers. 

 

One person spoke to me, made eye contact and was genuinely interested in us. She was a 
patient; she introduced herself as BJ and we chatted a while. BJ had not seen a doctor in 
spite of six hours of waiting. She told me she was a diabetic, addicted to pain medications 
and bipolar. The few teeth BJ had were dark and rotting. She had many sores on her 
ankles and calves in various stages of healing. She kept reminding the nurses that she 
needed to see a doctor. The more she asked for help, the more hostile the nursing staff 
became. One nurse walked up to BJ and told her, .You have to go in your room and be 
quiet.. BJ rightfully pointed out that this was an emergency room—not a prison. The 
nurse rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling and muttered, .Junkies.. 

 

 When the ambulance arrived to carry my mother back to the nursing home, BJ called out 
to me from ER Room #18, .Elaine! Come here!" She put her arm around me and pulled 
me close for a hug as she assured me, .I’m going to be praying for you and your mama.. 
That act of kindness went directly to the pain inside me like a balm. To be recognized as 
human. To be touched. And how ironic. The person in that emergency room who 
appeared to have the least to give was the person who gave the most. BJ offered healing. 

 

All people need to be noticed, touched and treated with compassion. My mother and all 
patients need something more stabilizing than a splint, more healing than sterilized 
instruments. The real emergency lies inside us, where we have lost the capacity to 
recognize and respect the needs of others. 

 

My mother is still somebody. Even though she now has to depend on others for her 
survival, she is fully human. She could be anyone’s mother. And anyone’s mother needs 
and deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. We owe that to each other. We owe 
that to ourselves. To the same extent that we are capable of recognizing and respecting 
the needs of another human being we will recognize and respect our own needs. When 
our turn comes to be completely vulnerable, we will want at least a cup of recognition 
and an ounce of respect to be administered regularly. We will hope for somebody like BJ 
to be in ER Room #18. 

 

Elaine Blanchard 

www.ElaineBlanchard.com 

www.PorchSwingStories.com 

RevElaine@comcast.net 

 

 

Week 3: September 19-25 

 

I Timothy 2:1-7 

 


First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be 
made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a 
quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity. This is right and is acceptable in the 
sight of God our Savior, who desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge 
of the truth. 

For there is one God; there is also one mediator between God and human kind, Christ 
Jesus, himself human, who gave himself a ransom for all—this was attested at the right 
time. For this I was appointed a herald and an apostle (I am telling the truth, I am not 
lying) a teacher of the Gentiles in faith and truth. 

 

Taking Up the Slack 

 

She wore a flower-print, full–body apron over her dress; her ample bosom and round 
belly packaged neatly for a day’s work at the hospital. Her gray hair was unruly and she 
was forever reaching up to brush wisps away from her face. She stayed busy working 
from ten in the morning to four o’clock, pushing the gift and candy cart from floor to 
floor. Audrey was a volunteer, a Gray Lady. She trained new volunteers, watched them 
come and go. She was like a steady river of refreshment for patients, families, staff and 
visitors. Everyone felt noticed, appreciated and cared for in Audrey’s line of work. She 
was a Gray Lady and her mission was to make the day a little better for people inside the 
hospital walls. 

 

I worked the evening shift as charge nurse on the psychiatric unit. Audrey stopped by the 
nurses’ station as we were taking report, one set of nursing staff leaving and handing off 
information to the next: test results, progress updates and medication changes from the 
day. .Anybody want candy here?. Money was quickly exchanged for chocolate bars, 
gum, and peppermints. .Anybody want a prayer?. The two questions were standard with 
Audrey. And our answer was always the same. .We all need it.. Audrey reached for 
hands and we connected in a circle while she invited into our circle and onto the unit 
something more powerful than any of us. Her prayers were brief and pointed. .God help 
us here in this place. People’s lives are in the balance. Prepare our hearts, minds and 
bodies to be a help, to be kind, to be available to assist you in your healing work.. And 
then Audrey moved along because there were so many more units to visit, so much candy 
to be sold, so many prayers to be offered. 

 

Audrey’s son, Bill, had been the organist at their church for many years. People kidded 
him about being a bachelor. .When are you going to make some girl a lucky lady?. 
Church men used to pat Bill on the back and chuckle. Bill would smile his broad and 
contagious smile. .Isn’t he the sweetest thing ever?. Church ladies cooed over Bill and 
his charming manners, his music and the excellent dishes he brought to potluck dinners. 
Bill died of pneumonia in 1988, and the church council refused to let the family hold his 
funeral inside the church. Word got out that Bill’s pneumonia was a result of AIDS, and 
the church people insisted that bringing Bill’s dead body into the sanctuary would 
jeopardize the health of the entire congregation. In spite of better advice from local 
doctors, the minds of the church people were set. Audrey and her husband, Dan, received 
guests at the funeral home. Few people attended and most of the men who came to the 


funeral were strangers to Audrey and Dan. Audrey made it her business to meet and get 
to know Bill’s friends after her son was gone and buried. 

 

She stopped going to church not just because of the hurt she felt about the rejection of her 
son, but also because Audrey’s husband developed Alzheimer’s disease. Most of her time 
was spent caring for a grown man who could no longer care for himself. Bill’s friends, a 
small group of gay men, stood by Audrey during the ten years that Alzheimer’s disease 
robbed her husband of his memories, his strength, and his dignity. Tony, the jewelry store 
owner, drove her to doctor’s appointments. Jay and Timothy, who owned the Don’t Tell 
Mama Bar, sat with Dan while Audrey had her hair fixed on Saturday mornings at the 
Kut & Kurl. Chris came over and played Bill’s piano just to entertain Audrey and Dan in 
their home. Keith cooked for them on weekends and put things in the freezer for later in 
the week. When Dan passed away, Audrey didn’t even consider having his service at the 
church where she and her husband had been baptized and married. Audrey wanted the 
funeral to be in a place where her new friends would be welcome and comfortable. The 
service was held in a gay bar and half the town declared that Audrey had lost her mind. 

 

And then she came to the hospital and took training to be a Gray Lady. Day after day 
Audrey pushed her gift and candy cart from floor to floor. She watched the people in the 
halls and in the waiting rooms. She listened when people needed to talk. One day Audrey 
stopped by the hospital cafeteria where I was taking a break. She caught me wearing 
worries on my face. I was almost ready to come out of the closet but I recognized how 
much that decision would cost me. I would have to move away, to a larger city. The 
people in this small town would never understand. I told Audrey my story and she told 
me her story. Then Audrey prayed one of her beautiful and brief prayers for me. I had a 
chance to thank Audrey for all of her prayers, for her commitment and her faith. .Well, I 
can see that the church no longer knows how to be the church, Honey. So I just try to take 
up the slack.. I took my coffee and went back upstairs, went back to work. I felt like I 
had truly been to church. 

 

Elaine Blanchard 

www.ElaineBlanchard.com 

www.PorchSwingStories.com 

RevElaine@comcast.net 

 

Week 4: September 26-30 

 

Psalm 146 

 

Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, O my soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live; I 
will sing praises to my God all my life long. 

 

Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath 
departs, they return to the earth; on that very day their plans perish. 

 


Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God, 
who made heaven and earth, the sea and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever; who 
executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry. 

 

The Lord sets the prisoners free; the Lord opens the eyes of the blind. The Lord lifts up 
those who are bowed down; the Lord loves the righteous. The Lord watches over the 
strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow, but the way of the wicked he brings to 
ruin. 

 

The Lord will reign forever, your God, O Zion, for all generations. Praise the Lord! 

 

Grandma’s Girl 

 

When I was a child I had a neighbor, Dr. Ouida Abbott, who listened to me when I 
talked. She chose to spend time with me. She taught me how to tie my shoes, make taffy, 
bake bread, crochet, tend a flower bed and play cards. Because Dr. Abbott listened to my 
stories, I thought my stories were worth telling. Now that I am an adult, I have a need to 
share what Dr. Abbott gave to me so many years ago. I went to the county correctional 
center for women and asked for a group of twelve inmates. I wanted to hear their stories 
and to give each of them a chance to be heard. I wanted a circle of women to learn 
together how much it can mean when we tell our stories and have them received by 
people who choose to listen well. 

 

We have fun together. We laugh, we cry and sometimes we sit together in silence, 
allowing a story to be present and uninterrupted even after the telling. I am amazed at the 
willingness of the class members to share from their lives and from their hearts. It seems 
like the stories have been waiting at the door, just looking for a chance to run outside. We 
meet together for 32 class sessions. We read a novel, journal and do in-class writing 
assignments. Each woman writes three stories that she polishes and prepares for the final 
performance. I bring in local professional actors who do a readers theater of the work 
submitted by the women. All of us feel so proud, so gifted, and so grateful on the 
performance day. 

 

Here is a story by Brenda, a member of my first class: 

 

When I was five years old I slept with my grandma. I was always a grandma’s girl. She 
loved me. She took me places, held me in her lap. She was proud of me. One night the 
house caught on fire. I still remember that night like it was yesterday. My grandma 
opened the window, picked me up and put me outside. She told me to run; she was going 
to get my little brother and sister. A neighbor man grabbed me up and carried me across 
the street to his porch where I watched our house burning, burning. My house burnt 
down. The roof fell in on my grandma and my brother and sister. That’s the night I lost 
everything except my mama. The firefighters and ambulance drivers were holding my 
mama in the front yard. She was screaming, “My babies! My babies!” She was trying to 
go back in the house for them. I could hear my grandma screaming too. 

 


Uh-huh.My grandma woke up in the night, lifted me up and saved my life. She cared 
more about my life than her own. I am a grandma’s girl. Always have been. 

 

Dr. Abbott gave me the gift of her time and her listening ear. It made such a difference 
for me. I have never enjoyed anything more than this experience of passing on to others 
what Dr. Abbott gave to me. We all have a sacred story to tell and we all have time 
enough for listening. 

 

Elaine Blanchard 

www.ElaineBlanchard.com 

www.PorchSwingStories.com 

RevElaine@comcast.net