The Kindness of Others

 The Kindness of Others

      It's easy to focus on the many hard things that happened during Tiff's last few days on planet earth.  Today marks exactly one week prior to her homecoming, and it was a difficult day medically.  Today she was bumped up to 8 liters of oxygen and the doctors all but told her that there was no way she was ever going to head home.  We held out hope that there was a small chance that Tiff would at least be able to receive hospice care at home, but today they told us that at best she would go into a long term health facility.  There wasn't a machine that could deliever the amount of oxygen that she needed to return home.  Needless to say it was quite a discouraging day.

      But God always met our discouragement with heavenly encouragement.  A few days prior I was scheduled to speak at Grace Fellowship.  This church had become quite precious to us over the course of the year.  In many ways they became our church family.  The church canceled their morning service, every one dressed in flannel (because, if you know me, you know that I love me some flannel lol), and they brought gifts to encourage Tiff and I while we were in the hospital.  She didn't feel well enough for visitors, BUT the church stood outside and prayed over us.  I cried that day.  It was such a boost to our morale.

      During that final week of my wife’s life the weight of grief pressed down like a storm cloud refusing to lift.  The tension was palpable.   The anticipatory grief felt suffocating at times.  But something unexpected kept breaking through the darkness—kindness. Quiet, undeserved, surprising kindness. It came from people who loved us deeply, and from others whose names I never learned or who I have forgotten over the past year. Yet every gesture felt like the hand of God steadying me when I could no longer steady myself.  I cannot express how these random acts of kindness kept Tiff and I afloat during those extremely hard days.

      I think of the nurses who took care of my wife.  Let's be honest, Tiff was so easy to love.  She never complained, hated hitting the call button, and would often apologize for needing help.  The nurses loved me staying in the room and they knew that I would 'tattle' on her if something was wrong.  The nurses watched us have dinner date after dinner date.  They saw us watching Hallmark Christmas movies, reading, praying, and crying together.  The nurses at the York Hospital and Chambersburg Hospital loved my wife.  One nurse grew very fond of Tiffanie.  She requested to be her nurse and would visit even when she wasn't assigned to Tiff.  She fought for us.  I remember one occassion when she bathed Tiff, got her a new gown, and just pampered her.  Tiff looked so much happier after that.  She hadn't been able to wash her hair in two weeks or more.  I told her she was gorgeous but I'm not sure I had ever seen Tiffanie more beautiful then after the nurse was done getting her cleaned up.  Yes, my wife was still beautiful in a hosptial gown.  She never once ceased being beautiful to me.  I remember how the nurses spoke gently to my wife when she could no longer speak back. They fluffed pillows, adjusted blankets, and treated every moment as sacred.  Or one of the male nurses who went out of his way to make sure she was comfortable.  Or the nurse the day that Tiff died that cried with me.  It reminded me of Jesus’ words:

“Whatever you did for one of the least of these… you did for Me.” (Matthew 25:40)  Their care wasn’t just medical; it was ministry.

      Who could forget about our friends? They didn’t always know the right words, but they showed up.  Our room was a constant revolving door of guests when she felt well enough to receive people.  Some of those people would simply sit with me in the waiting room.  Others could come into the chapel and let me wail.  Others watched me get frustrated, even angry with the Lord.  Those people sat with us during the darkest days.  They were the only light we had from time to time.  Many of them were Tiff's best friends.  Tiff maintained life long friendships with people.  They came and thanked her for loving them, supporting them, and always being present.  It reminded me of how faithful my dear wife was and how precious so was to so many people.  Paul writes, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)  In those moments, they carried mine.

      I also remember strangers in the hospital hallway offering soft smiles, doors held open, or small words of kindness.  These were people who owed me nothing—but gave me something priceless.  Hebrews reminds us,

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2)  I truly believe God sent some of those people on assignment.

      I remember asking the Lord one week ago today, God I need to see you in this room, I need to feel your everlasting arms embraced around me.  He answered that prayer not by sending His physical presence, nor did He give me a visual of an angelic host.  Instead He sent His people, His church.  His church had faithfully rallied around my family for ten months, and they were called to rally one last time.  A prayer that changed from heal Tif on earth, to heal her in heaven.  In the valley of the shadow of death, kindness becomes more than politeness—it becomes evidence of God’s nearness. Each act, big or small, whispered the same truth: You are not walking this alone.

      And even now, on this side of loss, I can see how God wove those moments into my grieving heart. Isaiah 41:10 took on flesh during that week: “Do not fear, for I am with you… I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”  God upheld me—through strangers, friends, nurses, doctors, and quiet saints in hospital hallways.  When life breaks, kindness becomes a lifeline. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it reminds you that goodness still exists. That God still moves. That the story isn’t only sorrow.

      If you are walking through deep loss, look for the kindness around you.  It may be hard to see right away and it may come unexpected and disguised—but it is there. And behind it stands a God who is gentle with the grieving.