Love bears all things

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things… And now, faith, hope and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love. I Corinthians 13:7, 12

Yesterday, I visited one of our members and her husband at their home.  He’s been diagnosed with a terminal disease and is experiencing a steady increase in dementia as his body systems shut down. Hospice care is in place and it’s only a matter of time.   

It’s been about three weeks since I saw him last and she confirms my first impression. The nurse has been here already today –not to provide any therapy or treatment, there’s nothing now, that will provide any improvement.  He comes to check on her husband and let her know the status of things – and things, she tells me, are heading south fast.

These two have always made a fun and active couple, even lately, in their early 70’s. He’s a retired church musician, who has a wonderful sense of humor, a strong bass voice and an insightful mind.  Now, he spends most of his day in a wheelchair, offering random comments unconnected to the reality that the rest of us are experiencing.  He’s unable to care for himself in the slightest way.

We sat together for a while in their pretty living room.  She and I exchanged some heartfelt words, sotto voce, so as not to disturb his ramblings. Her husband is slowly drifting away, literally, falling into sleep in his chair without a moment’s notice.  But truly, he is moving farther and farther away into an idiosyncratic place way beyond the horizon we might share with him.

But it’s still him, all right.  A vestige, a faithful remnant of this gracious, witty and charming man is still quite visible.  Hidden in the jumble of each confused utterance were several of his characteristic turns of phrase.  Parsing the words, you could get an inkling of his tendency for humorous observation and an echo of his typical funny and incisive repartee.

“I am fascinated by what comes out of his mouth” his wife confessed – softly, once again, so as not to let him hear.  She knows he’s dying, and prefers, she says, to “deal with it intellectually.” She has decided to observe it all, quietly, almost exegetically, drawing from each day’s experience deeper understanding, some deeper realization about herself, about him, about life, love and faith.

He is still very sweet, as he always was – although sometimes anxiety and disorientation move him into a child-like petulance.  He can still show love and receive love, though.  But precious moments of connection are giving way to more difficult encounters.  It’s as if they are together on a see-saw that is tipping perilously close to dumping them onto the dirt.

But her equanimity, her abiding patience and love remain intact – no, strong, stalwart, incredibly so, in the face of more and more serious challenges each day.  He falls moving the six inches from his bed to the wheelchair, and she can’t lift him.  Like most neighborhoods these days, no one, especially someone with a strong back, is at home to help her.  His terror glues his hands to the bedside table, the wheels of the chair, like an iron vise.  He cannot participate in his own recovery. 

She must bathe, feed, toilet and clothe him – this once strong, handsome man who was, truly, her knight in shining armor.  She clings to sweet memories of wonderful trips, stimulating conversations and sassy debates, fantastic parties, just sitting on the porch with a drink in the late afternoon watching the sun go down.  These days will not ever return for them.

Yet not one trace of bitterness or self-pity is in evidence.  Only wonder and gratitude that she is privileged – her word, privileged – to be as much an intimate part of his dying as she has been of his living.

“You are in the midst of a rarified, a sanctified time” I stammer – trying to convey that I understand—that I get what she’s telling me.  I want her to know that I can truly see that this is a holy time and place.  She nods, knowing in her full being, what I have only gotten a tiny glimpse of.

Later, I know quite fully that in their presence, I’ve been on holy ground. The words of the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, rise unbidden, as I reflect on the visit.

In that home, were certainly, amazing faith and undaunted hope – pressed down, overflowing, expressed, unselfconsciously, in an abundant display.

But the greatest thing of all in that place was love… that “greater love” that Jesus talked about – the irrational kind, that empowers you to lay down give your life for a friend’s – and have it all make sense… that greater love, that enables you to lay it down, not with a false martyr’s hubris,  but with true gracefulness  ­- that gift of unearned, unmerited steadfast love, no strings attached.

Although we can only ever, in this life, see, “as through a glass darkly” – yesterday, I came face to face with the love of Christ, embodied, outpoured, in a pretty living room on an overcast spring day.  Thanks be to God!