Acting with intentions

Written By: Susan Lucci. Susan Lucci is a guest-writer on Muslimsinengland.com from Chicago

“This isn’t my home, I’ll be leaving soon,” Mary declares as I escort her to the first floor to join the rest of the residents at “Casino Night” the afternoon of October 27th. “I’m just here to recover from the shock treatments they gave me for depression,” she explains matter-of-factly. It didn’t matter to me whether her story was fact or fiction, my goal was simply to entice her to join the afternoon’s socializing in the lobby. “They are serving orange punch and cookies,” I attempt a bribe. “Oh, why not, just for a few minutes, it would be a good break for my eyes,” Mary agrees, “I’m feeling foggy and not quite myself today.” I sympathize with this petite octogenerian.

After a brief pit stop on the third floor, where she insists better tea is being brewed, I coax her down to the ground floor. She meets me halfway, agreeing to sit on a bench outside the door to the room where 20 other residents of the nursing home are silently playing poker and roulette. As she hungrily munches on the cookie, I notice her shaky nails are perfectly manicured. “My eyes hurt,” she says. I ask when she was last outside. “It’s been weeks.” I offer her my iPhone pictures of falling leaves I had just snapped that morning. “Beautiful! My husband used to go to Northwestern,” she remembers. Then, without an iota of self pity, she casually informs me of the loss of her husband and two of her three sons.

“I don’t let my children watch TV,” I begin, “because it makes me feel lousy afterwards.” “The news is all death and destruction, bad news,” she agrees. I tell her briefly of the amazing meeting of 500 college students going on a mile down the road. She continues munching altough it does seem as though a light bulb goes on, her face is now aglow. “There are good things happening in the world,” I comment, “the news just prefers to show you doom and gloom instead.” Mary agrees, sipping orange punch now that her cookie is finished. She tells me she was an avid reader before her eyes went bad. I recommend books on tape. She smiles and says she’ll consider asking her daughter-in-law to find her some. “Well, I’m ready to go to the casino now,” she announces, and together we escort her walker into the room, a bit more lively now that the residents are engaged in card-playing. Now that they have remembered how to play. Mary easily joins a group in progress, a big grin on her face now. She seems a bit calmer following the snack and our conversation.

“I have 32 French relatives,” Tori begins, “my husband, he was French, died when I had three babies under five.” She, too, speaks without an ounce of self-pity, indeed her wrinkled face glows as she recounts past trips to France, although she can’t remember one single place to describe to us here today. “So, how do we play?” she asks, the first time of many to come. I patiently explain our improvised form of roulette. Random winners yield random winnings in the form of tiny paper dollars ( “it’s counterfeit!” the man sitting in the wheelchair next to Tori passively comments to no one in particular). At some point, Anthony and I decide the dollars can be cashed in for chocolates. We got hungry discussing our own trips to France and the amazing cheeses, breads and chocolates we enjoyed there. Anthony is a grad student at a Nashville divinity school. He, too, has spent the last three days at the Interfaith Youth Core’s Leadership in a Religiously Diverse World Conference. While walking here today, he confesses to me that he is the sole member of his family who is not gifted in the fine art of dealing with the elderly. I soon learn, to the contrary, he does indeed share the family gift, despite his self-doubt.

“We need some music,” Dave announces from his end of the poker table. The table is surrounded by poker faces, all residents playing their part, holding their cards and chipping in as the dealer called, unaware of what is happening. Bilal, the IFYC Fellow from the UK, deals out another hand as Dave puts Barry Manilow on the CD player. Bilal looks the role, sporting a black suit, pinstriped black and white shirt and checkerboard tie. He plays it even better. “Yippee! This was fun!” Hazel leaps up and announces when the supervisor comes announcing dinnertime. Maybe her childlike expression of pure joy was because she in fact had the largest pile of chips at game’s end, although I suspect more than that.

“Innamal-amalu bi-lniyyat,” Bilal repeats for my naive mind, “Actions are judged by intentions.” This is one of the greatest hadiths in Islam, he explains to our discussion group, and represents one-third of the knowledge of Islam. This mantra is to be remembered frequently thoughout a Muslim’s day, including during each of five mandatory prayer periods. I listen, truly inspired by the respect this young man gives his faith. He is telling us about his incredible experience traveling the world, when and where people show him respect to take time to pray.

I can’t say whether it’s the youthful inspiration of a young Muslim being grateful for his privilege to pray or the aged inspiration of octogenarians enjoying play, but the day’s events work on me. The memory of my ninety-year-old grandmother frequenting her Catholic church daily throughout her life to attend mass washes over me and suddenly makes sense to me. It was her time and space to pray and remember her own intentions. I thank Bilal for sharing his faith and unwittingly illuminating my own.