After the Sunday service and all the church events had ended, my husband and I hurried toward the nursing home.
Once a month, on Communion Sunday, we went to share the Lord’s Supper with a beloved church member living there.

Though the spring days had grown longer, by the time it was past 7 p.m., darkness had already settled over everything. Carrying the flowers that had adorned the Sunday altar, we opened the door to the nursing home where Elder Im was staying.

It seemed the evening meal had already ended. The dining room was quiet, and only the sound of televisions spilling from each room filled the hallway.

We stopped in front of the door marked Room 12. Looking inside, we saw a frail white-haired lady, her body nothing but skin and bone, connected to an oxygen tank. Her round eyes sparkled with curiosity at the sound of our footsteps. Next to her sat a familiar Asian lady in a wheelchair, gazing blankly until our eyes met and focus returned to hers.

“Elder, it’s me. Have you been well?” my husband greeted.
Elder Im stared at him for a while, as if searching her memory.
“…Ah! Pastor, it’s you!” she exclaimed, raising her one good arm again and again in delight, clasping my husband’s hand.

“Elder, today is Communion Sunday, so we’ve brought the Lord’s Supper to you.”
“…Pastor, I can’t even go to church…” She wiped away her tears over and over, overwhelmed with gratitude and surprise.

As my husband prepared the bread and cup, an elderly man in the next bed turned off his noisy television and, pressing his hands together, said, “God bless you both!”

“Elder, this is the body of Christ, given for us, and His precious blood, shed for us…”
“…Ah…men.” Elder Im’s voice trembled, and she paused to compose herself before partaking. The way she received that small piece of bread and sip of wine was deeply humble and beautiful.

After the prayer of thanksgiving, she could not stop saying, “Thank you for coming to see someone as useless and insignificant as me.”

“Did my son and daughter-in-law come to church today?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed! They are faithfully serving the Lord,” my husband assured her. Hearing this, she nodded in relief, as if her greatest concern had been for their spiritual life.
“Oh yes, my son—when he does something, he does it until his bones break,” she said with a satisfied smile.

At her invitation, we sat on the edge of her bed, looking around the room. The wall in front of her bed was covered with dozens of certificates she had won playing bingo—testament to the sharp mind of a former Kyungseong Girls’ High School graduate. In this nursing home life, they were now her quiet victories. Her wheelchair had become her only set of feet, carrying her through the hallways, exploring this small world alone.

We chatted for a while about life in the nursing home. She admitted that aside from the small inconvenience of sharing the room with her 96-year-old neighbor, she was content and at peace. Then, slowly wheeling herself to the wardrobe, she opened a drawer and said, “I don’t have much to offer you here,” pulling out some well-kept candies and placing one in each of our hands.

When we stood to leave, she insisted on escorting us to the entrance. My husband carefully pushed her wheelchair to the front door. There, with eyes full of gratitude and longing, she held our hands.

“I love you! God bless you!” she said, kissing her hand and sending one blue kiss after another.

As we walked away, we could feel the twilight of life drawing nearer to us as well. All the glory, wealth, and honor once enjoyed on this earth—where had they gone? Now, only solitude remained.

While waving through the car window to say goodbye, I noticed someone standing behind her wheelchair, waving with her. Ah! That face—so familiar, so gentle! Where had I seen it before? Was it not the very One who, just moments ago, had given His body and blood without reservation?