Love Never Fails

Eight years ago, I sat in a hospital waiting room on a frosty morning two days before Thanksgiving. It was early; the darkness of night still hung heavy outside. I clutched a cup of coffee in one hand, my fingers wrapped around the paper cup, greedily soaking up the warmth. My other hand, my colder hand, was wrapped around my friend, Mary’s. She was the reason we were up before the sun, sitting in a hospital waiting room.

Or, more accurately, her father was. He was receiving a kidney transplant.

He’d been sick for several years; first one kidney had failed and then the other. He was on dialysis when they added his name to the kidney transplant list, and the doctors warned that the list was long. Could anything be done to shorten his wait? Ideally a family member would be a match, so everyone was tested. No luck. Wasn’t there anything else that could be done?

Well, there was one thing. His wife could donate a kidney to someone else. That would move him to the top of the donor list. The decision was made as soon as the question was posed; she would be matched with a stranger to donate a kidney, so that her husband could receive one in time.

I remember when Mary told me. She and I have been friends since middle school; we’ve seen each other through braces, and first loves, and first heartbreaks. We went to college in different states, but both moved back to Nashville to be close to family. We bought condos three doors down from each other and made weekly trips to our neighborhood Mexican restaurant for cheese-dip-and-strawberry-margarita dinners. Eight months earlier, she’d stood by my side at my wedding. She’d helped me pack up my things and tearfully hugged me goodbye when I moved across town with my new husband.

She’s the closest thing I have to a sister.

So when she told me, I held her and whispered it would be okay, and that we have one of the best hospitals in the country for transplants while she cried. But all I could think about was that scene in Steel Magnolias, when M’Lynn is going to donate a kidney to Shelby, and Truvy tells what’s-his-name that it’s the donor who endures the most trauma. I remembered watching that movie as a little girl and being both surprised at how risky it was and unsurprised that, of all the people in Shelby’s life, it was her mother who would try to save her.

And I thought about Mary’s mama and daddy. Rev. Jim is a Methodist minister and Ms. Martha, a teacher, and they’re exactly like any other couple who's been married for more than half their lives and raised two children into adulthood together. When love looks less like the hand-holding, heart-skipping, and starry-eyed gazes featured in the movies, and more like the partnership, sacrifice, and one life lived in tandem that comes after the credits roll. As Mary and I talked about her mother’s decision, I realized something else. Her parents' steady, supportive exterior masked a powerful truth: how desperately they must love each other.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

The words from Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth, the ones I’d memorized when Rev. Jim was my church’s pastor and Mary and I first met, ran through my mind. I gave Mary one last squeeze as I whispered the last three words.

Love never fails.

***

It was only days after Ms. Martha donated her kidney that the call came. There was a match for Mary’s dad. Because her mom was still recovering, Mary and her brother would be alone in the hospital waiting room. The surgery would be lengthy—six to eight hours, barring complications.

“I’ll come,” I said. “I’ll sit with you while you wait, so you won’t be alone.”

And that’s how I ended up on a pleather chair in the hours before dawn, one hand wrapped around my coffee, the other around Mary. We didn’t chat or tell stories. We sat mostly in silence; an anomaly in our friendship. But I didn’t know what to say and she didn’t seem to be looking for distraction. My presence was enough, so I sat next to her as the hours dragged slowly by, waiting for the phone in the waiting room to ring with an update. I convinced Mary that she had to eat something, so we picked at greasy french fries in the campus McDonald’s for lunch and cracked jokes about the irony of fast food at a hospital.

The day’s light was fading when at last the news came. He was in recovery. The surgery had been successful. Mary rushed to call her mom, and I stretched my legs and took a deep breath. I rolled my shoulders slowly, cramped and stiff from hours of sitting in that worn little chair. Mary was across the room so I couldn’t hear her words, but I watched her face as she talked with her mom. I saw the shine in her eyes and her smile, as she shared the happy news that Rev. Jim had successfully made it through the surgery. They would have to watch him carefully, but his prognosis was good.

Love always hopes.

***

In three months, my husband Jon and I will celebrate our ninth anniversary. We’ve entered the messy middle of marriage; we have children to raise and careers to balance, and sometimes the weight of it all makes it more natural to view him as an adversary than as a partner. Life becomes about protecting myself and my interests. Our days become a scorecard of winners and losers—a tally of kind gestures to make sure no one is giving more than they’re taking. Suddenly, our marriage starts to look like anything but love. I become so consumed with worry, doubt, and righteous indignation that I forget to pray.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

The words come to me, memorized long ago. Then, I think about Mary’s mom and dad.

What can I sacrifice for the one I love?
My own agenda and checklist. My pride and sense of rightness. Sure, it’s not a kidney—but it feels no less a part of me.

Can I trust God through this, even if I don’t feel like it, because He’s been faithful through everything else?
Maybe. Or I can try, anyway.

Sometimes trying doesn’t look like much. Maybe it’s just loading and unloading the dishwasher every single day all week, because I know it’s his least favorite chore. Or choosing to build Jon up while chatting with a girlfriend, rather than complaining about how much he’s been gone and how much of the shared workload has landed on my shoulders. I pray for a cheerful heart and an attitude of gentleness. The smallness of these gestures doesn’t make them easy, but then I notice something: it’s working.

We’re having fewer arguments, and Jon seems less distant. I’m not out of patience three hours before bedtime every night. One night, we’re joking in the kitchen while cleaning up dinner and, as I reach to hang up the dish towel, Jon folds his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. As solidly as his embrace, the words wrap around my heart: a prayer and a promise.

Love never fails.