Mabel only said one word the day I met her. It was my first time volunteering at the nursing home. I had taken her on a wheelchair walk through the gardens, and as we stopped to admire the flowers and the birds, I asked Mabel questions and offered a few thoughts of my own.
But she said nothing in return. Her only response was a tiny smile that emerged when I picked her a purple petunia.
After we finished our nature tour, we headed inside for 11:30 Mass at the chapel of this Catholic nursing home. Mabel remained perfectly still until the priest came to give her communion. At that holy moment, she folded her hands in front of her heart and a clear “Amen” rang out of her otherwise silent mouth. Apparently, Mabel was more inclined to employ her verbal efforts in this act of faith than in any superficial chatter about germaniums and barn swallows. I liked that about Mabel.
Mass finished, I accompanied her to the dining room, and then headed home.
A few days later, I went back for another visit. As I was greeting the residents who were seated in the lounge, I noticed Mabel sitting by the window. I knelt down at her side, took her hand in mine and asked how she was doing. I looked in her eyes and saw tears trying to escape. Since I knew she could speak, I asked her what was wrong, and to my surprise, she answered.
Quietly, as the first tear was tracing its course down her wrinkled cheek, Mabel said “I want to die. There’s nothing left anymore. It’s empty.”
Now it was my turn to be silent.
I searched my heart for a response while my mind was offering trite suggestions which couldn’t begin to handle the depth of Mabel’s pain. Meanwhile, Mabel spoke again.
“I wanted to be so brave,” she whispered.
This hit me hard. I didn’t have much information, but it was clear that Mabel was not a whiner who couldn’t tolerate suffering. She was a woman of faith and integrity who had intended to face life’s challenges with courage and perseverance. But now she was suffering from the greatest of all trials: despair.
It crossed my mind at that moment that some people would use this heart-wrenching scene for an argument in favor of euthanasia, concluding that since Mabel felt her life was meaningless, the solution would be to end her life. But that’s not actually a solution to the problem of despair. The solution isn’t to end the life, but rather to end the feelings of meaninglessness. In a word, the solution is hope. The false compassion of euthanasia is only fuel for despair. All traces of hope must die before euthanasia can take place. But thanks be to God, there is always hope in Christ.
I reminded Mabel that Jesus also felt abandoned, and that we are never alone in our sorrows. But I knew that it wasn’t the time for an extensive theological exposition on the Christian understanding of suffering. Instead of talking about Christ, I needed to bring Christ to Mabel right then and there. I silently prayed that Jesus would touch her through my hands and that He would love her through my smile. I stayed next to her, holding her hand, and drying her tears. And when 11:30 came around, I was able to take Mabel to literally touch Jesus Himself in the Eucharist. I prayed for her and asked Jesus to fill Mabel’s heart with hope. I believe He answered that prayer. At the end of mass, Mabel stretched out her arm, took my hand in hers, looked me right in the eye and, smiling, said, “God bless you.”
The transforming power of hope isn’t just for Mabel. Despair can be a temptation for all of us. Life’s trials can sometimes threaten to extinguish our hope. But in rising from the dead, Jesus overcame death, despair, sin and sadness. Christ’s victory is now our own. By uniting ourselves to Him, through prayer and the sacraments, we have the power to defeat despair once and for all.
Gina Giambrone is a freelance writer and speaker based in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. She holds an MA in Theology and Christian Ministry from the Franciscan University of Steubenville and is currently awaiting the publication of her first book.
