I make a monthly visit to a number of care homes in this area. Each time, I spend about 25 minutes singing hymns with (or, in some places, to) the residents, with a Bible reading, a short talk and some prayers. Some of the residents are evidently devout Christians, most of them know all the well-known hymns, and it’s only very occasionally that I get heckled.

Since I’ve been doing this for over 12 years now, I have seen several ‘generations’ of residents, as well as a lot of staff turnover.

Last Christmas, I met a new resident in one of the homes, who was introduced to me as Father David. He’s a very elderly retired Church of England priest, who was very pleased indeed that a clergyman was visiting his home. Ever since then, he has always made sure to be wearing his dog collar whenever I visit.

Last month, another new male resident was sitting a couple of seats from Fr. David when I turned up (the vast majority of the residents are women, so one notices). He was very friendly and joined in eagerly (in my experience, men are more likely to be reluctant than women if they have no personal faith), though he was struggling to find the right page.

After about two hymns, he said, “This is lovely, but I don’t know any of these songs.” I made some friendly remark to express my sympathy while encouraging him to stick with it anyway, and promised to find at least one that he would know.

At this point, Fr. David beckoned me over and said quietly, “Don’t worry, he knows them all. He just can’t remember that he does.” Up to this point, although he’s old and frail, and therefore slow, I had not noticed Fr. David being in any way confused or memory-impaired, but it’s not surprising. The residents often make all kinds of confident assertions about things, because their dementia robs them of insight into their own perceptions, so I just brushed it off with a “Oh, does he? That’s nice”, and called the next hymn.

Whether Fr. David sensed my dismissiveness or not, at the end of the service, he beckoned me over again and introduced me to the other man. “This is Father John. He’s my former curate.” Turns out that David had been the dean of a cathedral in the mid-1960s, when John was unusually assigned to the cathedral as a curate, and served his curacy under David. Subsequently, they had served in different parishes, but always in the same diocese. And now, at the evening of their lives, they found themselves in the same care home.

Fr. John did indeed know all the hymns, even though he couldn’t always remember that he did. But you could tell from the way he spoke that he continued to hold the older man in his affections, 60 years after he first learned the art of ministry from him.

Whenever I visit this particular home, Father David is always there, collared up, and Father John is never far away. Two old friends and brothers in the ministry, singing the hymns of the faith even as their strength and memories, respectively, fade. There is something very touching and beautiful about it.

If I ever get to live long enough to end up in a care home, I can’t think of a better setting than sharing a lounge with a brother minister, while a younger man comes to share God’s word with us.