We’re going around the table, practicing finding words and sharing something we like about ourselves. Most of the women spurt out some disconnected sentences, dementia limiting their fluidity in language. I try interpret their personal dialect and mirror it back. They nod or look at me with a puzzled expression.
“You mean you were a good mother?”
“You take good care of your husband?”
Maggie’s turn. She struggles and then, realizing her struggle, haltingly forms a new question for me. I mirror it back to her.
“You mean, can God understand your prayers when it’s hard for you to find words? God understands every language, even the language of silence. He knows what is in your heart and hears your prayers, even without words. God loves you.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you for telling me this. I know it’s true.”
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