Safe Haven
Lessons on creative care and moments of joy through memory loss.
The retirement home’s dining room felt just like my grandmother’s home, with tables already set with beautiful china, silverware, and a plump vase of assorted flowers at the center of each one. Compassion filled the space as pastors gathered for breakfast, making small talk and gradually forming community. As we sipped coffee from petite cups, the speaker began the workshop, offering education on dementia and Alzheimer’s disease along with practical guidance for pastoral visits with members experiencing memory loss. What began as a simple morning commitment proved to be a wise investment of time, with lessons on creative care and moments of joy that continue to shape my ministry even now.
Toward the end of the session, the speaker reserved time for questions. A hand raised in the back of the room. Although I could not see the face of the pastor, I recognized his voice. He was someone I had known for some time, seasoned in ministry and compassionate in his care for others. His question reflected concern for individuals diagnosed with dementia who wondered whether taking their own life might be a better option than allowing their family to care for them through years of memory loss.
The concern grew out of a story shared by a parishioner who had confided in him about her plans. He listened with compassion and followed up after the visit, yet her story stayed with him. The presenter responded with empathy and explained that when a person is diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer’s disease, the organizational functions of the brain are often the first to deteriorate. He could rest knowing that although this woman wanted to spare her family from what she believed would be heartache, her brain would no longer allow her to organize such a plan.
At the end of the workshop, the speaker recommended the book Creating Moments of Joy by Jolene Brackey. Trained as an interior designer, Brackey worked in the design field for several years but found the job unfulfilling. Her love for older adults led her to accept a position as the activities director of an Alzheimer’s unit. In this role, she spent time with the age group she loved while integrating elements of interior design. Her vision was to push aside frustration with the disease and create moments of joy for both residents and their families.
In her book, Brackey shares stories, simple drawings, and practical ideas to enhance living spaces and family visits. The reflection titled “Where’s the Outhouse?”, acknowledges the humbling concerns surrounding bathroom habits and how the following environmental changes can help.
Make water in toilet blue so men SEE where they are supposed to hit.
Make the bathroom look and feel like a bathroom in your home, with pretty towels, decorative pictures, a picture of an outhouse, and soap bars.
Have a night light on in the bathroom. People with dementia walk where they are able to see.
Leave the bathroom door open so they can see the toilet. They need to see the toilet to know that it is the bathroom.
Replace the toilet seat with a color different than the floor color.
Paint the wall behind the toilet a midrange color so the toilet stands out from the wall.
Paint the door to look like an outhouse door.
Paint a half moon on the door (outhouse symbol).
Paint the bathroom door a different color from the other doors and adjacent wall. Then, you can easily say, “It is the white door over there.” A person with dementia keeps color definition far into the disease. The bathroom doors should be a color that is different than the bedroom doors.
Place the toilet paper in direct view.
Learn more from Jolene by purchasing her book or visiting her website, where she shares video clips from her own workshops on caring for loved ones with memory loss
The architect who spent ten years designing The Haven in Highland Creek in Charlotte, North Carolina, must have read a book like Creating Moments of Joy. The design of this facility creates a welcoming home for individuals living with memory loss. Starting in 2005, I began bringing mission groups to The Haven. We played bingo, sang songs, and laughed with residents as they told jokes and shared favorite stories.
Each visit began with a tour. We walked the inner loop of the facility, which included an ice cream parlor, a movie box office with posters from the 1950s, a dress shop, a tool shop, a barbershop, and more. The circular design gave residents the confidence of always having somewhere to go, rather than leading them to a confusing dead end. This familiar, indoor “downtown” setting offered residents opportunities to try on clothes, eat ice cream or popcorn, and have their hair cut by a visiting stylist while seated in a barbershop chair. I absolutely loved this creative space and have yet to see another one quite like it.
After strolling through the downtown, groups visited three areas known as neighborhoods. Each living space housed residents experiencing similar stages of cognitive decline.
We toured the Asheville Neighborhood first. Residents there were active and high-functioning, showing early signs of dementia. Most mission groups served in this space with men and women who occasionally forgot something, but an average visitor unfamiliar with their story would not have known they had dementia.
The next stop was the Charlotte Neighborhood. The layout mirrored Asheville but with different wall colors. Bedrooms opened into a large common area with a living space, dining tables, and a nurses’ station. To prevent confusion between closets and bathrooms, clothing was stored in armoires and dressers. Older youth volunteered here, spending time with residents who often believed they were visiting with their grandchildren.
Wilmington was the final neighborhood, home to residents in advanced stages of dementia or Alzheimer’s. Entering the space could be unsettling at first. The room was often quiet except for soft moans, and some residents lay curled up on couches or in lounge chairs. One day, I served in this neighborhood on my own, and I remain grateful for the staff who provided a safe haven for every resident there.
At the end of our three hours of service, staff often sat with the mission groups in the ice cream parlor and helped them reflect on their experience. Their questions were thoughtful and compassionate, centered more on the people they had served than on the illness itself. Staff offered guidance and education, encouraging the groups to carry what they had learned at The Haven back into their homes and neighborhoods.
This mission site highlighted challenges in understanding memory loss and raised concerns among some volunteers. A few adults questioned whether our mission groups were truly serving “the least of these,” since the facility did not accept Medicaid. I listened carefully to their concerns and, with respect, invited them to revisit Matthew 25, especially the call to visit the sick, by pointing out that many residents at The Haven lived with a disease that brought extreme loneliness. When names and stories could no longer be recalled, visits from family members often brought frustration rather than comfort, and over time those visits became fewer or stopped altogether.
A great strength within our mission groups was that volunteers did not expect residents to know our names. We listened to stories that were true to the person, even when they were not factually accurate. We offered the gifts of time, presence, and compassion to those who often felt forgotten. At times, I wondered whether the complaints from the adults stemmed from their own unresolved grief. I offered them the same gifts I offered to people with memory loss: time, a listening presence, and compassion, hoping that within our conversations a moment of joy might reappear.
My hope is that all individuals diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer’s will have places like The Haven to call home. My grandfather and countless others would have benefited from a space designed specifically for their changing brains. These safe and welcoming places should be available to all, regardless of financial means. This hope is one of the reasons we named our youngest daughter Haven.
In the spring of 2014, River, Haven, and I returned to Charlotte to visit places we once called home before moving to Virginia. We drove past our old house and the hospital where the girls were born. Later, we explored Uptown Charlotte, where we visited Romare Bearden Park and watched a mime perform in the center of town.
On the last day of our trip, we spent an afternoon at The Haven in Highland Creek. The girls had a blast in the indoor neighborhood, dressing up in old clothes and sitting at the bus stop. We took part in a birthday celebration by handing out cake to the residents and enjoying a slice with them. Before heading home, River and Haven stopped by the outdoor sign for a photo, and the girls couldn’t resist smiling as they pointed out Haven’s name on the marquee.
It was a great trip for many reasons, one of them being that it gave Haven an understanding of the meaning behind her name. I continue to see Haven’s name come to life as she serves others in our community. Just last summer, she participated in an occupational therapy mentorship at a local retirement home, where she offered her gift of empathy while listening to the stories of residents living with dementia.
I am grateful for the good and gracious memories from places like The Haven in Highland Creek, for the visits with church members who have dementia, and for being known and loved by a grandfather like Pop, who lived his final years with Alzheimer’s.
May we all find ways to create moments of joy with those we love and hold one another with care, especially when life is difficult for the person with dementia and their family.
Reflection
“Let Go”
To “let go” does not mean to stop caring; it means I can’t do it for someone else.
To “let go” is not to cut myself off; it’s the realization that I can’t control another.
To “let go” is to admit powerlessness, which means the outcome is not in my hands.
To “let go” is not to try to change or blame another; it’s to make the most of myself.
To “let go” is not to “care for,” but to “care about.”
To “let go” is not to judge, but to allow another to be a human being.
To “let go” is not to deny, but to accept.
To “let go” is not nag, scold, or argue, but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.
To “let go is not to regret the past, but to grow and live for the future.
To “let go” is to fear less and love more.
–Creating Moments of Joy; Along the Alzheimer’s Journey, Jolene K. Brackey (2017, Purdue Univ. Press, IN)
--
Take care, and find joy in serving others in the week ahead.
Serve and Love Well,
Rev. April H. Cranford
What a wonderful picture of service you created. And it’s great to know a place such as this exists. God bless the caregivers!