Then they also will answer, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?” Then he will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.” Matthew 25:44-45
Mrs Martin enters our lives
Soon after my husband and I responded to God’s call and returned to the Church, we desired a quieter lifestyle in which to raise our children. This drove us to leave suburban life and relocate to a small country town. We took it as a good sign that our new rural community was also the home of a beautiful old bluestone church aptly named Our Lady of the Rosary.
As one of only a few young families who attended Mass regularly, we quickly stood out among the older parishioners who took a shine to our children, spoiling them with attention at every opportunity. One such doting parishioner was a widow named Mrs Martin.
Over the years, Mrs Martin was privy to the ups and downs of our lives through her quiet observations from the pew behind us. When our son debuted as an altar server, Mrs Martin congratulated him on a job well done. When our daughter unexpectedly turned green in the middle of the Our Father before heaving last night’s dinner all over the floor, I’m pretty sure it was Mrs Martin who graciously helped my husband clean up the mess while I rushed our sick little girl out the door.
Mrs Martin never complained or showed even a hint of annoyance with the noise, loud whispers, whining, dropped food or sticky fingers grabbing at her bulletins and hands. Instead, she showered our children with love and kindness.
With the prospect of each new addition to our family, her own joy grew. And, when our last pregnancy ended tragically, Mrs Martin was there, sitting in her regular spot, mourning with us as we eulogised our stillborn son.
I was sick and you did not visit me
Not long after that time, Mrs Martin stopped coming to Mass. At first, we weren’t too concerned, until one day another couple stopped to speak to us and advised that they had visited Mrs Martin. “She has asked about you. You should drop by and see her. I know that she would like that very much,” the wife said. I could tell by the looks on their faces that the situation was grave.
For days, I wrestled emotionally with honouring this poor dying woman’s wish to see me and the unexpected dread that crept inside my bones. I grew anxious at the thought of entering into the presence of death again so soon. I broke down and cried whenever I thought of her waiting for me.
Sometime later, our priest, Fr G, approached us after Mass and repeated Mrs Martin’s request to see me. I could only mumble “yes…” while averting my eyes. When we got into our car, my husband said, “That’s twice she’s asked to see you. We should go.” I started to cry and looked at him with a pained expression. Internally, I felt the gate to my detached and grieving heart clamp shut.
When Mrs Martin died shortly thereafter, I was besieged by guilt and an all-consuming regret. I fell into an immediate despair. The sorrow of losing my baby bubbled to the surface and again rested there.
I did not know why the grief and loss of my son prevented me from visiting a dying woman. I also did not know at the time that there was a name for the sin I had committed – the sin of omission. Regrettably, I had denied Mrs Martin the opportunity to say what she needed to say. Now, it was too late.
A lesson learned
To our astonishment we learned very publicly just how much of an impact our little family had had on this unassuming, dear old woman. At the funeral, Fr G talked about how he spent many hours sitting by the bedside of Mrs Martin. All she could talk about was the beautiful family that sat in front of her at Mass on Sundays.
Mrs Martin wanted everyone to know just how much it meant to her to be a part of the life of this couple and their young children, however vicariously, for one hour each week. How the experience of witnessing their journey, through the expectant joy of pregnancy to the insurmountable grief of losing their unborn child, had touched her heart in ways she could never have imagined. They taught her how to lean firmly on God in suffering and loss.
Knowing that most people present would not have any idea who we were, Fr G smiled warmly and said, “Now I won’t point them out to you, but she was fond of saying how much she thought he looked just like the tennis player, Andre Agassi.” With that, all eyes immediately fell upon my husband.
After the service, almost every person there came to shake my husband’s hand, laugh at how much he did actually look like Andre, and thank us for having such a positive impact on the life of their mother, aunt, neighbour, and friend. When we returned home, I cried for a very long time.
Since that day, I have confessed my sin. I often pray for Mrs Martin and hope she prays for me. I keep the prayer card from her funeral as a constant reminder. Although I cannot change the past, I now know what I must do should I find myself in a similar situation again.
I will clothe You, Lord. I will welcome You, a stranger. If You are thirsty, I will give You drink, and if You hunger, I will feed You. I will visit You in prison, and at your bedside I will sit, holding your hand, caring for and loving You as You die.
Christina is a seasoned Catholic mum of four living in Country Victoria. She holds qualifications in psychology and pastoral counselling and finds joy in sharing her faith with others. With a love of writing since early childhood, Christina began blogging about faith and motherhood in 2022 after the birth of her second grandchild.
One Response
What a beautiful and powerful reflection. It also sounds like Mrs Martin was a beautiful woman of faith. Thank you for your words.