I Will Love Them Anyway: A Vocare Reflection

For Vocare I served at the Elizabeth Residence in Bayside, an assisted living facility for elderly suffering from dementia.

When I first arrived at my Vocare site, I was anxious and uncertain. I didn’t know what to expect. I had minimal volunteer experience (Mrs. Monson can vouch that I was in service circles all three years until this point), but I had never worked with the elderly, and my relationship with volunteer work felt strained.

Throughout my Catholic education, I was taught that those who are more fortunate and blessed are called to serve the disadvantaged. This sentiment always made me uncomfortable, especially when praying St. Francis of Assisi’s prayer: “Make me an instrument of Your peace.” I misunderstood it, believing it placed me and my peers in a position of superiority—as if others needed our assistance because we were somehow "better." Because of this, service never brought me the same joy my peers described.

But over the past two weeks, that perspective changed. From the moment I joined the daily “Sit & Be Fit” session, I sensed that the Elizabeth Residence was so different from any other place I had served. I sat next to Ron, a resident whose dementia is quite advanced, leaving him mostly nonverbal. When I handed him a pool noodle for the next exercise, he accepted it with a smile I mistook for understanding. Moments later, he launched it across the room at another resident. My supervisor simply smiled and assured me, “No worries, this happens all the time.”

As the days went on, I met Ron’s wife, Kari. Kari lives independently, is a massage therapist, speaks fluent French, and does not have dementia. Watching the way Ron looked at her made me reflect on something I had always taken for granted: recognition. While Ron’s gaze didn’t carry the recognition I was used to, it was not at all absent of love. It was a love independent of familiarity—pure and unwavering.

I experienced something similar with Carol, the resident I connected with most deeply. She lives at Elizabeth Residence with her husband Bill, who never failed to tell me how madly in love he still was with her. Carol greeted me each morning with a smile and a cheerful, “Hello, hon’.” Alongside her friends Pat, Norva, and Ruth, Carol made me feel at home.

Carol’s dementia was not as advanced as others, and I was convinced she remembered me throughout my entire time there. But on my last night, as I tearily said goodbye, she looked at me and asked for my name. I paused, told her, and she hugged me just as warmly as every other night. It shook me. I found myself asking: Does she know who I am? Does she know I’ve been here with her every day for two weeks?

That moment brought me clarity. It didn’t matter if Carol remembered me or not—she loved me regardless. Just as Ron may not recognize Kari as his devoted wife, he loves her all the same. The residents taught me a profound lesson about love and humanity: love doesn’t require recognition; it simply exists.

For years, a sticker on my battered and dented hydroflask has read “Love them anyway” – Luke 23:34. I’ve tried to live by that scripture, but it wasn’t until Vocare that I truly understood what it means—to love someone regardless of who they are, what they remember, or whether they can reciprocate.

As I drove away from the Elizabeth Residence on my last day, my heart and spirit felt fuller than ever before. I had been given a light from the residents and everyone I encountered during my Vocare journey. From now on, whoever crosses my path—sinner or saint, recognized or unrecognized—I will love them anyway.