The Test of Time

“I’m number one.”

“No, I’m number one!”

“You can’t be. I have number one.”

Clearly there was some confusion, which—let’s be honest—isn’t all that uncommon. It was one of my first times volunteering to do manicures at a nearby retirement home. I was about as unsure of what was going on as they were. Then I realized that previous volunteers must have split the women into two groups, with a volunteer serving each group. For some reason, this time the women thought this was a “take a number”-type situation. But instead of each having their own reserved place in “line,” half of them were insisting they were number one.

There isn’t much to complain about when you’re up there in years, so they seemed to grasp at anything they could find, then hold onto it tightly. The chairs weren’t pushed in just right. The temperature was too cold. The nail polish wasn’t put away in the right place. They had to wait half an hour to get their nails done—for free. But despite how cantankerous they were, they were most appreciative of my services.

I started doing manicures for these women when I was single. It was an easy way to give back, and after driving my grandparents back to Michigan from Florida one spring, I realized how often society sees older people as nothing but an annoyance. They drive too slowly, walk too slowly, think too slowly, and make you speak up and enunciate. They deserve more kindness, more patience, and more interest because, beneath the wrinkles and gray hair, they have been tested and refined like silver (Psalm 66:10).

The women I served at the retirement home could teach us all a thing or two about being grateful for the people in our lives. They thanked me and said how much they loved seeing me and my children week after week. Month in and month out, they’d ask how far I had to drive to get there (a whopping ten minutes), and they’d ooh and ahh at my time investment. That I worked full-time (this was still somewhat foreign to many of them), then make dinner and drag my kids out the door to serve some older ladies at a retirement home astonished many of them. I have never felt more appreciated for any other volunteer work. Maybe because I didn’t consider it “work.” I simply enjoyed doing their nails.

These women had the opportunity to observe some dramatic shifts in my life. They watched me plan a wedding, get married, show up with a bigger belly each month, and then cooed when I brought my infant daughter with me for the first time. Babies amaze most people, but for those who daily see only those closer to death than to birth, they are a wellspring of delight. I wonder if that’s because snapshots of long ago are running through their heads, or if they’re enjoying the sweet anticipation of their own birth into new life. Maybe it’s both.

I consider it a great treasure that I had two grandmas in my life, but my kids had about twenty. When my daughter squawked, leathery hands would rock her car seat, and a sweet voice would sing an old tune that was new to me. My girl would peer at their faces, soothed by these voices she heard for weeks and months. I was busy doing nails, but these women, who had long passed the mothering and even grandmothering stages, were fulfilling their calling once again. They mattered. They cared. And they still had the magic touch.

Having a purpose can make all the difference. Sometimes an opportunity presents itself, and sometimes you have to go after it, like my friend, Esther. She took it upon herself to be my helper. She would rearrange the tables and chairs, organize the nail polish, divide the ladies between the prep table and the paint table, and would make sure that the women were served in the order they arrived (no more “I’m number one!”). Then, when the last nail was lacquered, she’d gather the supplies and wipe down tables. She was the queen—she had the name, after all—of manicure night. If it wasn’t right, she’d tell you.

A decade went by, and Esther hardly missed a night. She was one of the handful of regulars I could always count on to be there. Once in a while, the activities team would schedule something else, and I’d show up to find Esther sitting there alone because everyone else had chosen to go to the concert, hymn-sing, or whatever else had been scheduled. Esther took it upon herself to get my phone number, and she’d warn me when there was a conflict. Slowly, the volunteer coordinators picked up on this and provided the courtesy calls Esther had initiated.

Esther was a mentor, grandmother, and friend. As my daughter grew, she had to be entertained more than when she was a sleepy infant. I still remember the simple but swaying song Esther taught:

Clap, clap, clap your hands.

Clap your hands together.

Clap, clap, clap your hands.

Clap your hands together.

When Esther’s own daughter came to visit, she made a point to take a photo of Esther and me, whom she had apparently heard about on more than one occasion. When I visited Esther’s room in future months, the photo of us was always hanging on the wall. The two of us, separated by decades but connected by a love of polish and parenting.

There’s a distinct rhythm to life when meals (and medication) are served at the same time each day and activities are planned with weekly and monthly regularity. I suppose this is comforting to people who, by their eightieth trip around the sun, are set in their ways. But I was always encouraged by the few women who were bold enough to step away from the norm and choose a nail polish color that wasn’t light pink.

Most women wanted light pink. Anything else was too bold, attracted unwanted attention to their gnarled hands, or “sent the wrong message.” But there are so many shades of light pink? Even within the realm of light pink, though, most were too purple, too pink, too coral, too glittery, or too light. The women giggled at shades with names like Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie and largely stuck to one color that was the all-time favorite: Vacation Time by Sinful Colors, of all things. Some weeks, every single woman chose that color. We went through bottles and bottles of that shade, and at one point we stocked up, fearing it would be discontinued. But apparently, it is still available. I have no idea what the average life span of a nail polish color is, but it seems this one has stood the test of time.

Isn’t that what we all want? To stand the test of time? These women sure did. They taught me to appreciate those around me, to step up when I’m needed, to be a good friend, and to be bold from time to time. So the next time you sit at a salon or see a sunrise, with all their shades of light pink, consider my friends. Know they still have value, and know that you do, too.

Kim Tanner enjoys the beauty and power of the written word and is an editor, wife, and mother of two. She lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Photograph © Chelson Tamares, used with permission