The Quiet Man Across The Hall

I met Tom on the day we moved Mom into her room on the second floor of the care facility. She had just settled in when I noticed him in his wheelchair nearby. I said hello and asked, “What is your name?”

He looked at me in this funny and slightly unsettling way and said, “You know what my name is.”

I told him, “No, I don’t know your name. Tell me.”

He just repeated, “You know.”

And that was my introduction to Tom.

As time went on, I got to know Tom in a different sort of way. I didn’t know anything about his upbringing, his family, his work, or what he enjoyed doing for fun. He didn’t say much. He was about 95 years old and lived in the room across from Mom. He loved to visit people, not to talk, but simply to show up in their rooms. Sometimes he would adjust the thermostat or move something around, convinced he was helping. Conversation wasn’t easy for him, but presence was something he offered freely.

Over the past year, I watched Tom age. I never saw family or friends visit him. Eventually, they placed him on hospice care so he would have someone who came specifically to spend time with him.

I often visited with him. I would ask him questions, push him in his wheelchair to wherever he pointed or nodded, or simply say hello. As time passed, he began falling asleep wherever he happened to be, often in positions that looked terribly uncomfortable. Many nights I came home and asked Heavenly Father if Tom could go home. His life seemed so hard, so lonely. It felt like he was simply existing.

Today I found out that Tom finally got to go home.

I will miss him. I came to love Tom, his quiet presence, his wandering visits, and the small ways I could help him. I am grateful he is now on the other side, reunited with family and friends who surely welcomed him with joy.

Jesus taught, “Love everyone; treat them kindly too.”
I didn’t realize it at first, but Tom became one of my teachers in that simple, profound commandment.

He reminded me that every soul matters to God, even the ones who seem forgotten by others. Tom didn’t have visitors that I observed. He didn’t have long conversations. He didn’t have the strength or clarity that I imagine he once had. But he had worth. He had dignity. And Heavenly Father saw him. Heavenly Father knew his name, even when he couldn’t say it clearly himself.

I asked him once about family. He told me he had three children and listed their names. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said. Later, a caretaker told me Tom only had one son, and none of the names he gave me matched. That brought a smile to my face. Maybe he was teasing me. Maybe those were grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Whatever the reason, it was a sweet moment.

Being part of Tom’s final season caused me to reflect on the end of our lives and how vulnerable, sacred, and tender those final chapters can be. It made me think of my own father, who passed away alone in a memory care facility during COVID because we were not allowed to be with him. That grief still sits in a quiet place inside me. Maybe that is why Tom’s loneliness touched me so deeply. Maybe that is why I felt such a pull to show up for him in the small ways I could whenever I was there serving my own mom.

I couldn’t be with my dad at the end, but I could be present for Tom. And in some way, that felt like a gift, one that softened something in me.

Through Tom, I learned that ministering isn’t always about words or big gestures. Sometimes it is simply showing up. Sometimes it is adjusting a wheelchair, offering a smile, or saying hello to someone who may not remember your name but remembers your kindness.

Tom reminded me that God places people in our path, not by accident but on purpose. And sometimes the lesson is simply this:

Love the one in front of you.
See the one others overlook.
Treat every soul like they matter, because they do.

I am grateful I had the chance to know Tom. And I look forward to seeing him again someday, whole and happy, in a place where no one is alone.