Editorial
Never Faileth
For years I had been half-expecting the phone call, but it still brought a jolt when it came: Thelma was in the hospital, expected to die within days.
I was Thelma’s visiting teacher. Although she wasn’t a member of the Church, sending sisters to her home was a tradition in our ward. Her home was half a block from mine, but I had never seen her before I made my first, companion-less visit.
Due to advanced age and fragile health, Thelma spent her days hunched in her worn beige armchair. Her companions were her television set and her tray full of craft supplies—sequins, Styrofoam balls, Popsicle sticks, glue guns. Her only kin were hundreds of miles away.
In the beginning, making conversation was difficult. She and I had little in common, and she didn’t want to hear any preaching. “I’ll talk about anything except politics and religion,” she’d quip. I’d do my best to keep the chit-chat going and keep my toddler out of her craft basket. After putting in my hour, I’d walk away with a sigh of relief.
Yet my sense of duty kept me coming back. Thelma never complained about being lonely, but whenever I knocked on her door she would look up with a hungry expression. I felt compelled to visit her every few weeks; as the months passed, I enjoyed her company more. Rather than scrounging for small talk, we were able to pick up threads of past conversations and continue them. She grew fond of my children, and I grew fond of finding small ways to delight her. One Christmas Eve I nearly burst with anticipation as I carried a surprise treat to her door: a pineapple upside-down cake, the dessert she had prepared for her family every yuletide in years past.
Still, every time I followed the sidewalk back to my own home, a part of me was glad to leave Thelma’s dull, small world behind—and for that, I felt guilty. Of course, I had my own life to attend to, and Thelma’s need for companionship was a deep chasm that I could not fill on my own. Although I cared about her, I feared I was failing to truly love her. If I loved her, I told myself, I would wish I could stay longer.
After hearing of Thelma’s hospitalization, I rushed over to see her. And yet as I walked toward her hospital room with the knowledge that this visit would be our last, I felt the same relief, the same guilt, the same heaviness of failure.
Her neighbor stopped me outside the closed door. “It’s not pretty in there,” she warned. Walking in, I saw Thelma on the hospital bed, twisted into an unnatural position, her limbs contorted and her neck craned backward. Her face was covered by an oxygen mask. Her breathing was shallow and rapid.
I approached her with forced cheerfulness. “Hi, Thelma!” I said, reaching out my hand. I didn’t think she was conscious, but as soon as she felt my touch, her hand immediately grasped mine with surprising firmness. Her touch was urgent, earnest; her vulnerability filled the air between us. How frightened she must have been.
Awash in emotion, my selfish, mortal perspective melted away. I felt Thelma’s beauty, her power, her preciousness. Our many differences—age, interests, faith—disappeared. What remained was the bond between two sisters, a connection that had been secretly forming an hour at a time, a thought at a time, a choice at a time. I was overcome with surprise, and with gratitude.
Sincerity swelled within me, nearly choking me, as I told Thelma I loved her, and thanked her for being part of my life. I could barely hear her response, muffled by the oxygen mask covering her face, but I didn’t need to. She was thanking me, telling me she loved me too.
Walking away from her for the last time, I wished neither of us had to go.
I’ll never forget the love which filled me that afternoon. It was so easy, so clear, so true—so different from what I usually feel. Often my efforts to love others feel like hard work. And while my intentions are usually good, rarely do they feel pure. Mixed up with my sincere desires to help, lift, and serve others is all the pride, laziness, and selfishness of my mortal self. My connection with the peaceful, constant love of Christ feels erratic at best. I usually—and mistakenly—conclude that the love I feel is horribly tainted, or that it doesn’t “count,” or that it’s not even real.
As I’ve read this issue of Segullah I’ve met many women facing the same struggle. In these pages, women describe their attempts to give love in the midst of frustrations and weaknesses, and receive love in the midst of doubt and pain. No matter what connection we seek—between daughter and mother, sister and brother, or mortal and God—it seems that our fallen natures always get in the way somehow.
Yet each of these writings gives cause to celebrate the reality and power of charity, the greatest of all. As we read of everyday moments—stitching a quilt, bathing a child, weathering a tantrum, comforting a friend—we are reminded that charity does not suddenly appear in dramatic deathbed scenes. Rather, it grows quietly within us, accumulating bit by bit through our daily thoughts and words and acts, slowly transforming us. Yes, the change is mostly invisible, cloaked in our busy, messy, flawed mortal lives and selves. But it is real. And one day, the charity that has grown within us will shine forth, unveiled.
I rejoice in the women that live charity every day, usually without realizing it. I rejoice in the truth that God’s love is great enough to absorb our weaknesses, heal our wounds, fill our hearts, and make us one. Our hold on divinity may waver, but the divine hold on us is steady. Our attempts at charity may even seem to fail, but God’s never will.
Kathy is editor-in-chief of Segullah.
