The real meaning of love
by Margaret Houk

A bustling nurse dropped the aged Lydia in my lap one afternoon at Memorial Hospital, but I wasn't too happy about it. I had my own problems.

My husband Peter was recuperating from recent hip surgery. That left me in charge of the house and three teenagers. We were discussing important family matters in the 4th floor lounge when the nurse wheeled her burden up to our circle of conversation.

"This is Lydia. She needs a change of scene. Doesn't get much company. You don't have to talk to her."

What an imposition! I didn't intend to talk to her--not much, anyway. I know God tells us to care for the poor and elderly. (In Deuteronomy 15:11 He says, "I command you to be open-handed towards your brothers and towards the poor and needy in your land.") But I was already busy with God-given responsibilities. Besides, what could a barely middle-aged woman say to an emaciated old stranger more than twice her years? We had nothing in common. Or so I thought.

Out of courtesy, however, I introduced myself and Peter. I explained his surgery, briefly. Lydia said nothing.

Then I picked up the crocheting I had started as a busy-work project during my daily visits. My responsibility was over. I had tried. I turned my back on her to talk family with Peter again--just as his physical therapy aide walked up to mount him on a cart and roll him away for his daily treatment.

Panic hit! Never good at making conversation with strangers, I felt extremely awkward--and somewhat angry at the nurse who had pushed "her" burden off onto me. I breathed deeply, praying, and then looked up.

Under the shrunken, slightly hunched frame, I saw a woman who once must have had some stature. In spite of a broken, slinged shoulder, her bearing was still tall and stately.

Thin wisps of long, grey, braided hair framed warm, brown eyes, a graceful nose, a square-set jaw and lips pursed more from spunk (I learned later) than from age. She must have been a beautiful woman in her day, I thought to myself.

Crocheting! Did she ever crochet in her earlier days?

Lydia opened up verbally at my query, her eyes admiring the interplay of oranges, yellows and browns in the shawl I was making. Through stroke-garbled language, I grasped she had done much handwork in her youth.

We began to talk family. I was surprised to learn I had met the daughter with whom Lydia lived. She had been my oldest child's English teacher a year earlier. Small world, I thought.

Lydia's infirm hand gripped a picture-covered pamphlet. I glanced at it, thinking to start a new line of conversation, then stopped, startled. The cover was identical to the one on the bulletin I'd received at church the day before.

My pastor had been up that morning, visiting Peter. He was delayed 20 minutes getting to Peter's room. Could it possibly be that this was the relatively new member, Lydia, whom we had prayed for in church the day before?

Yes, it turned out Lydia was a member of my church. I knew by now God was trying to tell me something. Lydia needed a friend, and He had chosen me.

Thus began a year of visiting. I came to know this elderly stranger as a dear woman of noble aspiration, stubborn and determined disposition and kindly ways. I saw Lydia weekly through several weeks of nursing home convalescence, a circulatory ailment that returned her to the hospital, another convalescence at the nursing home, a sudden reversal into a two-month coma which no one expected her to survive and then a rally which saw her sitting up in a chair one summer day, bright, perky and ready again (in her own words) to "take in laundry".

This latest, near-terminal illness took its toll, however. Lydia no longer remembered me. She was sleeping so often during the daytime hours that I began to call around mealtimes to be sure she was awake.

There wasn't much to talk about either. She had forgotten our earlier bonds. I limited my visits to just a few minutes.

Nevertheless, she knew a friend was there. On one visit, her eyes showed no sign of recognition, but a big tear filled one as I held up a rose for her to smell that I had brought from my garden.

The last time I saw her, she was again asleep. Now that frost had taken the roses, I left her the latest church bulletin. If she couldn't appreciate the church news, she might at least enjoy the colourful autumn cover picture.

Walking out of the nursing home, I wondered if it was worth it. Did my stopping in mean anything at all to Lydia anymore? It didn't seem so. For me, it had become all give, not get. I wondered if my obligation were not now over. If it meant nothing to her, why did I even need to bother?

Yesterday she died. Today I know. What had started out as a "Christian duty" had become something more. I cried when I heard the news.

Lydia is gone. She lived a long, full 87 years. And even in her last declining year, God gave her something to give, something to live for. She had taught someone the real meaning of love.

Margaret Houk is a freelance writer from Appleton, WI.

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