by Maddie Lokensgard, Ananda House Leader
Kendyl stands behind Shann as they find moments of joy with Maddie in the Farmhouse kitchen
In the second year of the global pandemic, our world at L’Arche felt very small. Yet within those small, long, bittersweet days we still found plenty of kindness and goodness—often unassumingly and always unexpectedly.
On Christmas Eve in 2021, I found such a moment. The day felt like any other: routines and chores, hot coffee, and Christmas sweaters. Due to a staffing shortage and a Covid surge, I spent the holidays far away from all of my family and friends for the second year in a row. Despite the underlying tinge of loneliness, I was determined to make the most of the day. I fixed blueberry chocolate chip pancakes for everyone in the house and made plans to take core member Nancy Tyson to a late-night Christmas Eve service at St. Leo’s Parish in Tacoma. She had attended regularly pre-Covid but had not visited since the pandemic began. I thought it might help us both to get more into the Christmas spirit.
After a full day of work, I returned to Farmhouse, where we both live. I found Nancy dressed in her Christmas pajamas and waiting for me in the living room. I asked if she still wanted to go, secretly hoping she would rather turn in early. It was silly to even ask. She had been looking forward to this all week. Reluctantly, I loaded Nancy and her wheelchair into the van and drove across Tacoma.
We got there early and unloaded ourselves, damp and tired, into the church. As soon as we entered the building, we were surrounded by welcoming faces who greeted the both of us with warm enthusiasm. Nancy responded to everyone with a loving smile. We found our seats in the sanctuary, with plenty of room for Nancy and her wheelchair to sit beside me.
We took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Catholic mass. Incense permeated the room and liturgical singing filled the air. Every so often, Nancy would turn to me and hold up the ASL sign for “I love you,” or tell me “thank you,” one of the few phrases she can verbalize. I took this to mean “thank you for coming here, for spending this time together, and for being my friend.” I know that’s what I was thinking about her.
The priest shared the Christmas story and talked about how God tends to show up in the most unexpected ways. Although I might not subscribe to this exact story of the Divine anymore, I think it hit me that night that perhaps the priest was on to something.
How could I call what my life had become anything other than holy and unexpected? How could I be the most alone I had ever been–living halfway across the country from everyone I know, sitting in a strange church in a strange city next to someone who, less than a year prior, had been nothing but a stranger to me–and yet feel so strangely known and loved? As the priest continued with his homily, Nancy quietly held out her hand to me and I took it. We sat together like that, hand-in-hand, for the rest of the service that night.
There are days when this life in L’Arche feels hard. When living in the place I work and loving the people I get paid to help causes a tired heart. Sometimes I don’t want to wake before dawn, put on my gloves, and wipe the sleep from someone else’s eyes. It is a test of patience most days, but I find there are still days, hours, and moments where work does not feel like work. Making pancakes in the morning is still just making pancakes in the morning, dancing in the shower is still just dancing in the shower, and sharing a joke with someone is still just as funny, even if it needs to be finger spelled. No one tells me what it means to care. No one teaches me the right way to love. These are lessons I find within the subtle cracks of every day. Sometimes they are obvious—they show up wearing a leopard print bucket hat asking for a hug or are found in a warm welcome to a new place. Other times they show up quietly, unexpectedly, and simply hold my hand on a lonely night: a reminder that maybe, just maybe, we are not so alone here after all.
