Last month, my mom’s residency had their annual Back-to School Carnival, and a large chunk of extended families gathered for a major league cookout and block party. Mom and I strolled around the get-together enjoying the sights and sounds. The Komet Hockey and Mad Ants mascots showed up for selfies and entertained the children. Little ones bounced off the walls in the Moon Walk and hurdled down the big, blow up slide. Some kids who could not throw a softball with any accuracy ran up and smacked the dunk tank target with their hands to send the residency employee into the water below. A few helium balloons untethered and meandered up, up and away. A few residence also attempted to wander off, but were quickly reconnected to a nearby hand.

The facility provided a shaded area for farm animals to repose. Mom grew up on a farm, so we ambled over to pet the chicken, piglet, lamb, bunnies, and pony. She brushed the feathers of the domesticated chicken and said, “Nice bunny.”

This late summer festival also featured live music from an impressive senior citizen singer and guitarist, who could still croon and run his fingers up and down the frets with ease. No question in an earlier era, he swaggered as a 60s or 70s rocker. I envisioned his wisp of white hair once housed a Beatles moptop or a stylish, longhaired 70s shag. But, alas, as we age, we begin to merge in appearance and all start to look the same.

Mom and I sat on a park bench enjoying the music, and I mused on the spectacle of my fellow guardians. Most of us found ourselves slipping past midlife. We wore extra pounds, yet stood in line for seconds at the carcinogenic hot dog stand while grazing on the buttered popcorn and cotton candy because who could resist the party concept called “free”? Most of us indulged in a bag or three of Doritos or barbecued chips and washed down the palate with a slushy. The pavement stuck from punch and pop spills, and the tables began to resemble Jackson Pollack paintings with ketchup stains, mustard splotches, cheese drippings, salsa droppings, and syrup. Hot and sluggish, the majority of my fellow caregivers, along with me, tried to navigate this event the best we could with our aging parents, whom in a cognitive sense had left us, and as the old-timer played yesteryear’s music, we adult children wrestled with the disappearance of the parents we knew.

Two weeks ago, my wife, daughter and I took Mom to the Pixar movie, Inside Out. My mom has developed the habit of waving her arms like an orchestra conductor when she hears music play, which would distract any serious movie viewer, but no one sat too close to us. As people entered the theater, from her seat, Mom reached out her hand to grasp these moviegoers and said, “Love you, honey,” and “Hi, sweetie,” which I considered quite endearing, but she startled more than a few adults who could not slip past us fast enough. I felt a rush of irony during the movie in the scenes where the Islands of Personality crumbled into the dreaded Memory Dump, and when the minor character, Bing Bong, vanished into non-existence.  Over the years, I have watched Mom disappear, and sitting on the park bench at the Back-to-School Shindig, I knew the other adult children had witnessed the same.

Yet, as I reflected upon these pictures framed in the hot, sticky summer afternoon, and appreciated the nursing home for providing this multi-generational activity with the collision of opposites: high-energy children bouncing around our fading parents; and as I observed my peers attempting to bring, if only for a moment, a twinkle of recognition into dimmed eyes, I found myself welling up.

Something seemed admirable in all this. A nobleness in the mess of life. In the midst of a fractured world, one could see the genuine effort to care. A middle-aged woman steadied a tottering, confused gentleman wearing a veteran’s cap, who in youth probably considered himself invincible. She led him to a folding chair and helped him with his nachos. Another lady, whom I met before, walked her dad around the parking lot. They moseyed past us, and I gave salutations, which she returned, as her father stared into space. We, the adult kids, strove to make comfortable the husk of our parents whom would never return to us in this life. We returned their love; as imperfect as they were; as imperfect as we are. Age could not dim this, and in paradoxical beauty, maybe this love shines brighter against the backdrop of a decaying world.  Treasure in jars of clay.

This summer I stopped at a new Subway location, and two sharp high school guys bantered behind the counter and worked well together. “Welcome to Subway! What tasty delicacy can we make for you today?” They could have easily emceed their high school talent show, and they both entertained the customers. “Want some hot, hot peppers on this fine sandwich? Could I perchance interest you in our fresh baked cookies?” In front of me, an elderly couple tapered up to the counter, and the wife stumbled over her words to tell the “boys” what she wanted, and she made little sense with annoying slowness. The husband interpreted for her. I watched the guys continue to stay amicable, although they glanced at each other and seemed to hold back laughter and/or criticism. Yet, they carried on like true professionals, and when the elderly couple shuffled out the door, I thanked the young men for their patience and cordiality.

The one who took their order said, “Dude, they shouldn’t be driving.”

I said, “I’m sure the lady doesn’t get behind the wheel. Good thing for us.”

We laughed, and then the other teenager said something that surprised me, “Yeah, just trying to pay it forward for when I get old.”

What an insight. Most teenagers, and adults (self included) don’t look too far past the present, but those who see beyond tomorrow may be the wisest among us.

I shared with these two high schoolers a quote that a special youth leader, who volunteered in youth ministry and spent his entire career working with the elderly, shared with me, and I have not forgotten it:

“As we are, they once were; as they are, we shall become.”

After sitting for some time with Mom on the bench at the Back-to-School Party, with no little effort, I got up and got her up, and took my mom by the hand, and we danced in the parking lot.