It was Sunday, a lazy day at the nursing home, a day designed for rest. For my mother, though, by ten in the morning, the word “rest” quickly translated to an altogether different one: restless. She couldn’t yet walk by herself nor use her right arm, but that didn’t stop her from stirring up trouble.

I started down the long corridor armed with her favourite reading material: People, Enquirer, Woman’s World. An attendant at the Nurse’s Station stopped me.

“Hi, Joy,” she said. “Your mom’s a little upset this morning.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling heartsick. “How bad is it?”

“Well,” the attendant said, “she’s pretty much cussed us all out and told us to stay out of her room.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

When I stepped into her room, my mother scowled and shouted, “Where have you been?”

Before I could answer, my brother walked in.

“Oh, Son,” my mother said, tears suddenly streaming down her face. “How did you find me? I thought y’all had left me out here.” She tossed one of her magazines onto the floor. “I want out of here now. Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked and sat down on the bed.

“I want to go home. Didn’t you hear me?” she yelled.

“Two weeks, remember,” my brother replied, his voice soft and soothing. “You can only stay two more weeks, so while you’re here, you need to let them help you get better.” His lawyer’s training put exactly the right words in his mouth. “And Mother,” he continued, “don’t cuss at these folks. You’re going to offend them. You just can’t talk that way to them.”

“Why not?” Mother asked as sincerely as she’d ever asked a question.

My brother glanced over at me. “Because, it’s rude, and they’re…”

With perhaps a swift hint from heaven—and a desperate fabrication—I blurted out, “Quakers, Mother. They’re Quakers.”

My mother looked shocked. “Quakers? The quilt people?”

My brother and I nodded in unison. “Yes.”

“Oh, my Lord,” my mother said. “I’ll be da—”

I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

My mother grimaced. “I forgot.”

One of the nursing assistants stopped by and walked to my mother’s bed. “Are you okay, Mrs. Frawley? Can I get you anything?”

I cut my eyes at my brother who, in turn, cut his at Mother. “I’m just fine, hon,” she said to the girl in a tone dripping with uncharacteristic sweetness. “I don’t need a thing right now, but thank you for asking.” My mother gave us several exaggerated winks.

The assistant seemed delighted with her response and patted my mother’s arm. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.” She left with a big smile on her face.

My brother and I looked toward my mother and mouthed, “Quakers.”

She rolled her eyes but mouthed back, “Quakers.”

Then the three of us laughed out loud at our first delightfully private joke.

On Monday morning, though, the real test came.

I attended a portion of that morning’s physical therapy session and seated myself so that Mother could see me…watching her. Her therapy assistants for that day had managed to talk Mother through her entire morning’s workout, but toward the end of the session, they directed her to the bike, a machine that exercises the legs and arms. My mother hates that bike! Already tired and agitated, she allowed them to walk her to the machine but refused to move once she sat down in the bike’s seat.

One of them reached to move my mother’s “bad” arm and place it on the bike’s handle. Mother slapped at her then gritted her teeth. “Get away from me, you sorry little…”

I cleared my throat. When Mother looked in my direction, I mouthed, “Quakers.”

She, in turn, rolled her eyes and mouthed back, “Quakers.” A sly grin spread across her face. She put both hands on the handles, both feet on the wheels and finished her workout.

It is strange, indeed, the power of one simple word to quell my mother’s tongue. A voice from heaven? Perhaps. A touch of Grace? Most assuredly.