In my book Deep Roots, Good Fruit, I echo the words of the shipwrecked Apostle Paul in Acts 28:1-2, with a chapter entitled “Unusual Kindness”–a reference to the natives of Malta.
Here is a story of unusual kindness I have never before told.
It was a handful of days before Thanksgiving, and with a pretty diamond on my newly engaged hand, I braided my hair in the dormitory mirror, spritzed perfume on my wrists, and hurried to pack my bags, not wanting to miss my ride to the suburbs of Chicago, where I would gather with family at my aunt and uncle’s home.
I was unaccustomed to holidays spent with family I barely knew, given the miles between us. Thanksgiving was normally celebrated with family in New England, but life had changed now that Grandpa was gone. My eyes filled as I remembered his reverent manner as he said grace, standing before the plattered turkey, a gentleman in a collared dress shirt and wool sweater.
//
During the four-hour drive, I imagined what the next five days might hold. My aunt and uncle were a study in opposites. She was warm, talkative, generous, full of laughter, a lover of sweets, and the spender of all spenders, buying new furniture, appliances, and vehicles with a wave of her hand: You only live once!
My uncle was gruff, glaring, no-nonsense, and hardworking. He chewed hoarhound candy, a bitterness no one else could abide. Although quick-tempered, he had a tender heart toward his family and his dog, and it was plain to see he was all bark and no bite. A lifelong smoker, I was hard-pressed to remember a time he was not battling a chesty cough.
So yes, my aunt was an easy read; my uncle not so much, but regardless, given our geographical difference, and my reticence, I never knew either one well.
//
Thanksgiving break proved fun, poring over bridal magazines, dreaming about my wedding day, nine months out. The women congregated at the long dining room table, making Christmas ornaments from my aunt’s lovely and extensive craft collection, swapping stories, sipping hot tea, and prepping for Thanksgiving. There was slicing, stirring, and preparing German meats paired with American fare. Bratwurst and shaved roasts, coleslaw alongside brined turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, and the softest yeast rolls, perfectly warmed. We rolled dough and filled pies, baked decadent German brownies, nibbled melt-in-your-mouth cookies, and purchased my favorite treat of all at a local bakery: sweet, flaky baklava.
The college break passed quickly, and before I knew it, my parents were on their flight back east the day before my brother and I were to catch our ride back to school.
The last evening, as everyone munched on leftovers and binged Christmas movies, I opted for a yogurt, given how stuffed I felt from Thanksgiving. Later, feeling a touch tired, I said goodnight, brushed my teeth, and turned in early, ready to sleep before traveling to school the next day.
Hours later, I awoke with a start, sitting up fast on the bottom bunk in my cousin’s room. The house was dark and still. I felt chilled yet hot, and all I could think was, Oh, no.
I dashed to the bathroom, where I was violently ill, again and again and again.
After twenty of the longest minutes of my life, I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my pale face, and, feeling shaky and cold, tiptoed back into bed, pulled the warm covers high up to my chin, and assumed that was the end of it.
Half an hour later, I was right back in the bathroom, gagging, imagining that there could not possibly be anything left to bring up.
I was wrong.
This time, I did not bother going back to bed, but curled up on the soft bath mat, used a bath towel as a blanket, and prayed for relief.
I spent the rest of the night in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, rising to be sick and flopping back to the shag mat, which is where my aunt discovered me the next morning. To say I was deeply embarrassed is a wild understatement. I felt vulnerable and exposed in my haggard state.
She helped me up, fluffed a soft pillow, covered me with a cool sheet, and settled a heavy blanket over me. I slept all day, and when I woke, late-afternoon shadows flickered across the living room. I had missed the ride back with my brother and would also miss a day of classes. I never missed classes, and was worried.
My aunt told me that my uncle had taken the following day off work and would drive me back to college in the morning. A day off work? He never took a day off, but picked up overtime shifts; this I knew.
Later that night, as I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard my aunt whisper to my uncle, I meant to throw away that expired yogurt.
//
There are ordinary moments in life that later, much later, stand apart in their brilliance.
But first life has to happen; you must grow up; have eyes to see.
//
He drove alongside one of his daughters as I lay huddled in blankets in the back of their van. There were long stretches of silence, broken by his clipped growl: You okay? Or Need to stop? All punctuated in that Chicago accent, with funny-sounding vowels.
I napped off and on while clutching my sick bag, terrified I would heave in the back seat, but I didn’t. We stopped twice, once for gas, once for snacks and soda, but I passed, sipping my bottle of Gatorade.
I’m glad to see your university, he said, some four hours later as he turned on the blinkers, curving onto the pretty road that led to the campus infirmary.
Thank you for driving me all this way, I said. Sorry you had to miss work.
Well, someone had to bring you back, he said.
I nodded, feeling dizzy.
He carried my bags inside and briefed the nurse, explaining the current state of my health affairs.
Feel better, he said, eyebrows raised, voice gentler than normal.
My cousin hugged me, but my uncle was already halfway out the door.
I waved and followed the nurse with her clipboard.
Kristin, he barked, and I turned.
We will be at your wedding.
And then?
He was gone.
He had to be at work early the next morning.
//
The nurse.
Hand to heart, I cannot count the times I have remembered her. In those days of young motherhood, with four young children, little loves who came down with the flu, stomach bugs, chickenpox, coughs and colds, chills and body aches. I considered my care for them, fashioning it around the way she cared for me, in her uncommon kindness. I think of her now, when family or friends are under the weather, or injured, in need of loving kindness.
//
My uncle was gone, and my chills returned with a fervor. My stomach felt stretched, weak, and nauseous once again.
This nurse was a middle-aged woman, easily pushing fifty. Her hair was dark and fuzzy, with heavy bangs springing up, down, and sideways, bangs that revolted against her face, a face with prominent buck teeth, and gentle eyes hiding behind exceedingly thick glasses. She led me into a quiet, tidy room, and as she turned back the bedcovers, I watched her pretty hands, clean with neatly trimmed nails, working hands that folded back the bedsheets with ease. She smelled of clean cotton.
There is a towel in the bathroom, dear. Wash your face and get your pajamas on, and I will bring you soup.
I did as I was told, relieved to be given instructions.
When I came out a few minutes later, she led me to the bed, helped me in, and arranged the covers.
I am so sorry you have been sick. Now tell me what happened.
So I did, surprising myself.
She listened attentively.
I am quite sure you are out of the woods, and your queasiness now is due to your empty stomach. Sip some of this chicken broth, dear, with saltines, little by little. Then I want you to sleep, which is the best medicine of all.
The infirmary was peaceful. I was, in fact, the only patient.
She sat with me as I sipped and nibbled, and my stomach did not revolt. In soft tones, she inquired about my major, my fiancé, the wedding. Her presence was soothing, so much so that as I listened to her share about her love for nursing, her love for God, her love for others, I saw the truth reflected: she was beautiful, not by the world’s standards–but never mind that. It was a magnificent inner beauty; a radiance as strong and bright as the morning sun on a wintry day.
She gathered my tray and placed the call button within my reach.
Beep me for any reason at all, I am around the corner. Sleep well, dear, she said as she departed, cracking the door.
I slept.
//
My uncle and his family came to the wedding, as promised. A dozen years later, he and my aunt visited our family, and I watched as he romped and played with our four children, roughhousing and spoiling them with little gifts and a delicious steak dinner.
The waitress circled our table, taking orders. My uncle was last.
Just run it over the flames a time or two, he barked at the waitress, who blinked, having asked: Rare, medium, or well-done, sir?
She scribbled his instructions on her order pad, and he laughed, then coughed, and coughed again.
Cancer had come for his lungs and spread with a vengeance. A few years later he was gone.
I’ve never forgotten his unusual kindness in missing work in order to bring me back to school.
//
The infirmary nurse died suddenly, a handful of years after I graduated. The memory of her unusual kindness, dwells richly inside, still serving as a powerful tutor.
But that was her job, some might say. She only did what nurses do. Nothing unusual about that.
I beg to differ. Her actions were greater than common courtesy, or normal hospitality. She went above and beyond, and like the natives of Malta, kindled a fire that warmed and welcomed me, a stranger.
After we were brought safely through, we then learned that the island was called Malta. The native people showed us unusual kindness, for they kindled a fire and welcomed us all, because it had begun to rain and was cold.
Acts 28:1-2
