The feeling that my life has little meaning comes to me at times. It is as if an unwelcome guest arrives at the worst possible time, and stays despite repeatedly being asked to leave. There were days in recent weeks where my feet became leaden as I forced myself to shuffle from one activity to the next.
It seems odd that a loved one's critical illness would restore a proper perspective. God's ways are much greater than my own.
Recently, I held Barbara's mother's hand and sought to encourage her soon after she lost her position as care giver for her ailing husband. In one day she became too weak to cross a room without help. Her heart is struggling to simply keep her alive. Now she needs constant care and she can offer little care to the man she loves. Physical care is what I mean. Her presence, her love, her faithfulness to her husband of 65 years are all meaningful whether or not she is able to show her love by cooking a meal, cleaning the house, or any other sort of physical expression. I saw that it was true. I saw that she was loved by her family in her weakness, just as she had been loved when she was strong. Her life has meaning because she is Juanita, not because she can do the right things. It came to me forcefully that my own life had meaning because I am Kent. I love and I am loved. Material things and physical acts can be good. They can be an expression of love. However, love prevails with or without them. God is love. We can trust God for the meaning of our lives.