A cup of cold water
In a moving article in the New York Times this week, hospice chaplain Kerry Egan writes movingly about the idea that “no love is ever wasted”. Mostly it is the story of her daughter’s transition from childhood to adolescence. But it is also a reminder that love, real love, comes in many forms, but they all have one thing in common.
The author makes a strong statement, and while my first reaction was simply to be deeply moved by her powerful story, my second — and I think not meritless — reaction was to ask myself, “Is she right?” Can there ever be such a thing as love that is wasted? Love that is sacrificial (because that’s what real love always is), that is willing to relinquish its own needs, to be the grain of wheat that falls into the ground and dies, to value another more highly than it values itself, has inherent value, of course. That kind of love means sorrow of one kind or another, inevitably; whether the sorrow of loss through death, or the sorrow of difficult promises made and kept (despite my numerous flaws, I put Diane ahead of a lot of other things, like possible career advancement, that I had to forego so that I could order my priorities rightly), or even the sorrow of rejection (as when love is unrequited). Love means fidelity; it means that it is not “altered when it alteration finds”. It doesn’t give up when times are hard. It’s not all bubble baths and mirrored rooms; it’s keeping watch over your loved one when they are caught in the snare of dementia.
Well, Egan’s argument is that love shapes the one who loves for good, even if no one else (other than God) notices. To care about someone else’s well-being (which means letting them define for themselves what that is, by the way) is one of the most challenging, yet the most important, thing any of us can do. The apostle Paul said that it was one of only three things that will abide forever, and the most important of the three. C. S. Lewis said that we have only two choices, to love — or to die; to avoid the risk of having your heart broken, you have to harden it beyond remedy.
So I’m thinking now about how to invest what remains of my earthly life. I still love Diane wholeheartedly, but she has no needs now; she is immersed in a love greater than mine ever could be, and is whole and complete. I love the cats, whose lives now (as Diane’s was then) are markedly better because I exist, and am willing to be an instrument through which God can do something redemptive and salutary. And (maybe) my writing, and who knows what other things I do for those who are (in Agnes Sanford’s fine phrase) “in my bundle”, may make more difference than I know.
Juan de la Cruz famously said that “in the evening of life, we will be judged by love”. That’s a saying that is subject to multiple interpretations, and the pedant in me, who picks apart words in the same way that the cat carefully selects one piece of kibble from her bowl at a time, can’t agree with all of them. But I certainly agree that love — which is more important to give than to receive — is the essence of why we are here in this world. Many of the other things with which we occupy ourselves are lesser things, and need to take their proper place in our lives. Even a little gift, like a cup of cold water to one who is thirsty, will not go unrewarded, Jesus said; and being aware of those needs, and being willing to meet them even when we might find it inconvenient, is what it means to invest a life well. That’s easy to type, even with mildly arthritic fingers; it’s difficult to do, of course.
So I hope that I will become increasingly willing to obey the difficult command to “give, expecting nothing in return” — not that I am a person without needs, but God has promised to meet them, if I walk uprightly — in a world that is often near desperation. I start where I am, which is next to the cat. I notice that her water bowl needs replenishing. So I think I’ll end this essay, and take care of that. I’ll use cold water; and, as I view the bowl from where I sit, I estimate that about a cup of water should do the trick.