“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12:9-10
I wrote these words on the white-board hanging over my sister’s hospital, where she lie dying of a debilitating disease.
These words from the Apostle Paul’s letters to the Corinthians described a battle in Paul’s soul; a struggle he describes as a “thorn in his flesh, that will not leave me”. In fact, the struggle was so hard that Paul begged God to take it from him.
God responded, but not in the ways Paul had hoped. Rather than taking away Paul’s struggle, God promised His sufficient grace. God also promised that His power would become perfect in Paul’s weaknesses.
I wrote these words from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, on the white board hanging over my sister’s hospital, where she lay dying of a debilitating disease.
Around 20 years ago, my sister was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, her own thorn in the flesh that would not go away. She lived valiantly with that disease taking as her mantra, “I might have MS, but MS doesn’t have me.”
However after years of a seemingly quiet disease that caused fatigue, balance and sensory issues, another more debilitating disease caused her brain to shrink, leading to significant cognitive and motor impairment.
This once-active, athlete, energetic mother and teacher, whose contagious smile lit up a room, was now totally dependent upon on others to care for most basic needs.
Many family and friends decided not to visit Marita in those final days. It was understandably just too hard to see a vibrant young wife and mother, who devoted her life to her husband and her two beautiful children, lying helpless in a hospital bed, her body and her mind ravaged by this terrible disease.
However to me, my sister’s suffering and her death was her final gift to the world. Second only to the legacy she left behind in her son and daughter, I believe that her courage in the face of death, was my one of my sister’s greatest accomplishments.
I was so eager to spend time with my sister, especially in those final days. When I greeted her that first night in the hospital room, she gave me a feeble smile and puckered her lips for a kiss.
I told her that we were about to have a few days of a “sister’s sleep over” in her hospital room. She stared into my eyes as she slowly repeated the words, “sisters’ sleep over”, and I wondered if she was remembering our Christmas Eve camp-outs on the floor, waiting for Santa to come.
The next morning, the nurses started the nutrition and hydration through new feeding tube that was placed in Marita’s stomach the previous day. Within hours, she was like a wilted flower that came back to life. Later that day, we learned how to feed her through the tube.
After some visits with family and friends, Marita and I had time alone – and it was precious. One of the biggest losses she experienced was her ability to communicate with others, most especially with those she loved.
One of the greatest lessons I have learned in caring for and living with people with disabilities is that communication and human language is much more than words. Marita renewed my understanding as we spent those final few days together.
We listened to music, singing songs of praise and Disney tunes, especially her favorite “Hakuna Matata”- a phrase that means, “no worries for the rest of your days.”
Her eyes followed me around the room as I danced and sang songs while we fed and changed her, caring for her most basic needs, that most of us take for granted.
Then, ever so slowly, in the quiet moments, her heartfelt thoughts would come forth, like the moment I was helping to bathe Marita, now bedridden with contracted limbs. When I rolled her towards me, our blue eyes met and in a moment of profound humility, prompted by her own gratitude, Marita uttered in a clear and strong voice, “Thank you.”
I was overwhelmed, sobbing with tears of joy and grief, as I touched her face and told her what an honor it was for me to help my big sister.
In lucid moments, we probed the deep stuff as only sisters can do. There were long pauses before she could answer me and she often needed to repeat my questions to come up with a simple answer, but patience and intuition payed off.
I realized she was afraid to die, especially to leave her young-adult kids. So I promised to be there for her kids, for weddings and grandchildren along with their Dad, to celebrate the new life that will continue even after she is gone.
I led her in prayers for courage and strength and for the grace to let go of the hurts and pain that we all hold onto, even till the end of our days. Through our simple communication, I apologized to Marita for the times we didn’t have, the calls I didn’t make.
Then we turned to the Lord in the simple prayer Jesus taught us. Slowly and deliberately, we prayed the Our Father, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Our eyes locked as we grappled with the truth of those words and the consolation God gave us.
Just as we finished our quiet prayer time, the priest walked in the door with Communion and the anointing oils for the Sacrament of the Sick. Formerly known as Last Rites, this healing sacrament helps us to focus our eyes on the Lord and let go of the spiritual and physical suffering that holds us back.
Marita continued her simple responses with the priest and me and then he offered her a tiny piece of the Eucharist. In our Catholic faith, we believe that the Eucharist is truly the Body and Blood of Jesus. Marita struggled to open her mouth to take the host. I had a teaspoon of water ready to help her to consume the host. I could tell she was nervous.
As I tried to assure her, the priest whispered, “Put the Eucharist on the spoon.” After I processed this request, my hands shook as I put the piece of the host on the tiny spoon.
All at once Marita opened her mouth to receive the Lord who came to her on a tiny spoon. God’s power humbly met my sister in her weakness and a deep sense of peace settled on her as she drifted off to sleep.
The weekend confirmed God’s grace is sufficient and His power was reaching perfection in Marita’s struggles. In her greatest hours of weakness, my sister was strong.
A week later, in her final act of profound strength, Marita died in the loving arms of her son and daughter, as the song, “I Can Only Imagine” played in the background.
Marita taught us that God’s grace is sufficient and His power is revealed in our weakness. God comes to us in the spoken and unspoken words of loved ones, the prayers of the faithful and sometimes even on the tip of a tiny spoon.
Eileen Benthal is a writer, speaker and wellness coach with a B.A. in Theology from Franciscan University. She is the author of Breathing Underwater: A Caregiver’s Journey of Hope.
Eileen and her husband Steve live in Jamesport and have four young adult children. Their youngest, Johanna, is a teenager with special needs.
Eileen can be reached at FreeIndeedFreelance.com.
