Residents of Carmel Manor retirement home are gathered in the dining room when Brother James Phelan makes his lunchtime rounds.

        “Hi Ruth, how are you?” he asks.

        “Pretty good, thank you,” comes the reply.

Carmel Manor chaplain Brother James Phelan (Tony Jones photo) | ZOOM |

        He's casually dressed in a striped shirt and gray slacks. His gray beard matches his thinning hair, partially covered by a chocolate-brown skullcap. Most of those he greets are white-haired, and in wheelchairs.

        “Phyllis, you went out a lot this week, I noticed,” he says. “How are you, Sheila?”

        He makes his way around the room, stopping briefly at every table. He knows everyone by name. It's a little thing, maybe, but it brightens the residents' day.

        Sometimes he assists those who can't feed themselves. He takes them to chapel. Prays the rosary with them. Cares about them.

        “He's there for everybody,” says Sister Teresa Kennedy, administrator of the Fort Thomas nursing home. “He's extremely kind and caring.”

        Brother James, a Franciscan brother, is one of the home's three chaplains. Besides his pastoral work, he also volunteers here. He knows which of the 138 residents have been robbed of memories by Alzheimer's. He knows those whose feeble bodies still harbor strong minds. He knows who enjoys a beer in the late afternoon.

        “They don't drink much,” he says. “With one can, I can take care of five people.”

        He suspects those five residents don't get their beer on the days he's not around. It's a little thing, but not necessarily insignificant.

        Like seat cushions.

        “I'm concerned if I see a resident not sitting on a cushion,” Brother James says. “I joke with the staff sometimes that if I had $500, I would offer it if they would sit in a wheelchair all day without ever being able to get out of it, and not be able to ask for help in any way.

        “Many residents do finally get reduced to that state. They can't ask for a drink of water, or they can't ask to go to the bathroom.”

        Brother James helps the hard-working staff make sure the simple necessities aren't overlooked.

        His own modest needs are met by the Brothers of the Poor of St. Francis, the Roman Catholic religious order he joined when he was 24. He lives with two other brothers at Holy Family Friary in Covington.

        For 40 years the Franciscans have provided him with food and shelter and a purpose in life.

        “I come from a generation where people gave serious consideration to doing something with their lives that reflected how we thought Christ lived,” he says.

        And so after graduating from Xavier University and serving in the Army, the Connecticut native joined the Franciscans. He took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. For 17 years his ministry involved working with troubled boys, first as a teacher, then as a school principal.

        He then worked as a Franciscan administrator for a time, finally reaching the point where devoting himself to the elderly seemed more reasonable, “because I would have more energy than they would.”

        Brother James is 64.

        “Age just sort of creeps up on you,” he says. “I've never thought I would have a long life span. Men in my family really don't live to be old. I'm not sure that I'll see 70,” he says matter-of-factly.

        “Because age sneaks up on you, so do the physical handicaps that come with age.”

        He sees that in the people he ministers to. They rely on others for so much. Little things can make a big difference. A sip of beer in the afternoon. A visit from a familiar face.

        He walks down a hall and into a room where a wisp of a woman lies in bed. He touches her arm.

        “How do you feel?”

        “Better,” she says.

        He holds her hand. “You're as warm as toast,” he tells her. He promises to stop by later; this was a quick visit to say hello.

        “I'm glad you did,” she says.

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