When I arrived today to bring Edna a picture of the two of us (taken on her birthday), she was trying to clean her teeth with a little plastic toothpick. Earlier this week, after my own dental cleaning, they had given me a little bag with toothpaste and a toothbrush, so I left them with her. She wanted to know what she owed me, and I told her, a smile. She gave me a big, toothy grin and proudly informed me that she still had all of her teeth. We visited for about 15 minutes before I had to go.

Next on my list was Connie. I gave her a picture of the two of us as well. I want her and the other residents to remember me and, more importantly, to know that God and I love them. Connie told me she loves to sketch, so I asked if she needed anything. Her response was simple: a pencil sharpener, a #6 pencil, and a sketch pad. Before I left, I told her I loved her. She got quiet for a moment, then softly said, “Thank you.” I asked if she wanted a hug, and she responded, “Yes—nobody hugs anymore.” That was a sweet hug.

Mac was in his bed when I arrived. I don’t know what brought him to the rehab center, but he appears to be paralyzed from the neck down. I gave him the tie blanket a lady had made for me to give to someone in need.

The first time I met Mac, I felt God nudging me after I left, telling me I should have hugged him. The next time I visited, I told him about that moment and asked if he had been hugged lately. “Don’t nobody hug me,” he replied.

“Can I hug you?” I asked. He gave a small nod, and I heard a quiet “Yes.” Reaching down, I gently wrapped my arms around his neck and held him close. On this visit, he wanted another hug. Hugging is something that still makes me feel uncomfortable at times, but the rewards are great—for both the hugged and the hugger.

Eugene was next. He was sitting on the side of his bed, his blanket draped over his head and shoulders. His legs were cold, so I pulled a lap-sized tie blanket from my bag and covered him up. Once he was warm, we settled into a conversation about how things were going. As we talked, he said something that opened the door for me to share about God’s love. I told him that God loves us no matter what we do, what we’ve done, or what we didn’t do. His love never changes. It’s only us that change when we love Him. The more we love and seek to know Him, the more we are transformed for the better. Just then, the nurse came in with something for Eugene, and I had to leave. I’ll follow up with him next time—God’s kind of love is worth revisiting.

Daniel was my last visit of the day. I’ve only ever seen him in his special wheelchair, elevated and held at about a 125-degree angle. He rarely stops talking, and I rarely understand what he’s saying, but he always seems happy. He loved the picture of the two of us. When a male nurse walked in, Daniel excitedly pointed at the picture, then at me, then at himself, laughing all the while. The nurse started laughing, too, and the joy on Daniel’s face was priceless.