Caring for the Afflicted

“Let a widow be enrolled if she is not less than sixty years of age, having been the wife of one husband, and having a reputation for good works: if she has brought up children, has shown hospitality, has washed the feet of the saints, has cared for the afflicted, and has devoted herself to every good work.” 1 Timothy 5:9-10

As we single out our fourth “good work,” observe, if you will, to whom this assignment is given. Caring for the afflicted isn’t primarily the responsibility of the government or the United Nations. It’s not exclusively the domain of pastors. This good work is our duty and responsibility. We as women are all to be members of the Coalition of Caring for the Afflicted.

But you don’t need me to tell you this. While we don’t all gravitate toward doing the “good but dirty” works Mom described last week (I wasn’t about to arm wrestle Janelle over who would change that messy diaper), I don’t know a woman alive whose heart doesn’t break over the suffering of people near and far. We are nurturers by nature. God made us that way.

Where we can run into trouble is determining who, when and how to care. Suffering is all around us in this fallen world. Physical, financial, spiritual, practical, and relational hardship is closer than your neighborhood Starbucks. But as one wise man said (probably better than this): “Need doesn’t always imply responsibility.”

We are all responsible to care for the afflicted. However, we are not responsible to meet every need at every time in every place, all by ourselves. Rather, we must work together, each faithful to do our part. We must prayerfully exercise wisdom when practicing this good work.

When my colon ruptured three days after Jack was born, I was suddenly one of the afflicted--weak, afraid, in terrible pain, unable to hold my little son. Of course Steve, Mom and Janelle bore the primary burden of caring for Jack and me. I am always in their debt. But the care of the saints from two churches—Sovereign Grace Church of Fairfax and Covenant Life Church—was of indescribable comfort and help.

I carry around snapshots in the wallet of my mind: Mark and Jane, the night before their wedding, bringing a chair for Steve to sit in by my hospital bed; the collection of money from our care group to help with expenses; the room full of cards and flowers; Uncle Gary and Aunt Betsy driving from Maryland to console me when I ended up back in the hospital; a phone call or visit from a friend when I was recuperating at Mom and Dad's house; the cards from children, from singles, from friends, from people I hardly knew; the church members who packed up our apartment, and unpacked and painted our town house; the “Scriptures of Hope and Encouragement” from Steve and Denise (my elementary school teachers who share in the fellowship of the afflicted); the diapers and formula from Mrs. Mensah; the people who told me they prayed for me, even in the “watches” of the night; my cousin Melanie willing to give blood for my transfusion; Kristin, buying me pretty things to cheer me up; Dad reading Spurgeon to me by the hour.

In physical as well as spiritual weakness, the care I received from each and every person was significant. What might have been a “small” good work to them (like praying or writing a note) was an indescribable blessing to me.

Of the many lessons learned from this trial I hope I have learned how to more effectively care for the afflicted. I no longer underestimate even the simplest expressions of kindness and compassion.  I don’t profess to excel in this good work. But I know countless people who do, and I want to join their coalition.