My friend stunned me the day she offered to make a memory quilt out of Steve’s shirts. Her kindness opened up a friendship between the quilter and the “widow on the hill.” Over three years later Marlene gave me another gift as you’ll see in the video below. The source of a person’s compassion is never an easy story because compassion is born in hearts who have needed kindness themselves.
The Treasure: Praise be to God … the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)
If you’d rather read than watch the video, here’s the full video transcript:
No fire in the fireplace today! Temperatures reach 104 degrees. That’s too hot for this New England girl. But I want to tell you about – remembering my friend Marlene who called to say her husband Tom would be driving me to all of my PT sessions until I could drive myself. Physical therapy – there was going to be a lot of it. Post-surgery inflammation and pre-session narcotics made driving dangerous for me. So three days a week Tom would walk from their home to mine, scale my steep driveway with his bi-lingual book on democracy, and off we’d go.
Tom thought his driving me to PT was no big deal because, after all, I had so many friends. He was sure someone would volunteer. He thought he was doing what anyone could do. But in reality, Tom took something that to me was actually lonely, painful, and scary … and he made it steady. No phone calls or juggling of schedules. All I had to do was get in the car. He was to me the visible comfort of God. I came to realize that each ten-minute ride to physical therapy was more than a ride; it was a gift of safe presence and thoughtful conversation. I did not expect such treasure on a 2.7-mile drive. And although many of our talks were interrupted upon arrival, we picked up where we left off on the 2.7-mile return trip home.
I did the math today. Tom drove me to and from forty appointments! That equals eighty ten-minute talks … or eight hundred minutes, which totals over thirteen hours.
At a recent dinner party I wistfully told some widow friends that my ten-minute talks with Tom were about to end since I no longer needed pain pills. One leaned in with a simple solution: “Don’t tell him!” Laughter reminded me that friendships don’t need to end. Sometimes they just need to take on new dimensions.
So, next week I get to have Tom and Marlene at my table for a meal and we’ll get to have more than a ten-minute talk.