Honoring those who care for others by ensuring no one is forgotten

Turn on the news almost any day, and it can feel as if the moral temperature of the country has dropped a few degrees. Stories of violence, greed, callousness, and unspeakable crimes dominate the headlines. It can be easy to develop a dark outlook about the world and the people who inhabit it.

For those of us living with chronic illness, that darkness can feel even heavier. Many readers of this column are navigating life, as I am, with myasthenia gravis (MG). MG weakens the muscles we depend on daily, putting us at a disadvantage. Our bandwidth is limited, and we must avoid wasting energy on unimportant things. When illness already taxes our strength, absorbing the daily stream of grim news can make the world feel even colder.

That is precisely when the presence of good people becomes essential. Or, just as importantly, when it becomes essential to be the good person in someone else’s life.

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John and I have been friends for 49 years. We grew up in a small, tightly knit suburb just outside Boston, where families often knew each other for generations. Our connection dates back earlier than our childhoods. John’s mother and my mother, along with several of my aunts, were schoolmates for 12 years. My great-grandfather, after immigrating from Ireland, settled on the same street as John’s great-grandparents. You get the point.

In the kind of New England town where history accumulates quietly, that sort of connection wasn’t unusual. Lives overlapped. Families intertwined. People knew not only who you were, but who your parents and grandparents were. In our younger years, we didn’t fully comprehend that gift. I now know that many of our personal and professional successes are rooted in that formative time.

I want to pay tribute to my friend John. To explain why, I need to tell you about the Lazarus Ministry. The name comes from a story in the Gospel of John in which Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. Over the centuries, the name Lazarus has become a symbol of hope, especially for those who seem forgotten.

At the St. Anthony Shrine in Boston, the Lazarus Ministry provides burials for those who died with no one to mourn them. No family. No funeral. No one who claimed their bodies.

A few months ago, the ministry offered a Remembrance Mass for five little babies. At the front of the church were five tiny coffins. There were no mothers, fathers, or siblings present to grieve them. Not a single friend or acquaintance. Their brief time on this planet had little of the love we want every child to experience.

I have always believed the worst thing a person can express to another is that they have no value. When I think of those five babies, I ask myself, “What about their value?” That is what makes the people who gather for that Mass so extraordinary. They step forward and say, in effect, “Everyone else may have forgotten these people, but we have not. They are still our brothers and sisters.”

Their actions remind me of the words of philosopher and psychologist William James: “The great use of life is to spend it for something that outlasts it.” Another quote, often attributed to humanitarian Albert Schweitzer, says, “The purpose of human life is to serve and to show compassion and the will to help others.”

Which brings me back to John. Recently retired, John could easily spend his days relaxing and enjoying a well-earned rest. Instead, he’s involved in the Lazarus Ministry and helps organize the Remembrance Mass. Once a week, he serves dinner to people experiencing homelessness. He performs many other acts of quiet service that support people in need — so many, in fact, that listing them all would quickly become tedious. I get exhausted just hearing about all his daily comings and goings.

John doesn’t do these things for praise. He does them because he believes people matter. He has also never forgotten me. During some of the darker stretches of my journey with MG, John has been a steady source of support. Sometimes it’s just a text message asking how things are going. Sometimes it’s a message meant to lift my spirits. Small gestures, perhaps. But as author Anne Lamott reminds us, “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait, watch and work: You don’t give up.”

The world may sometimes appear darker than we would like. But the darkness is pierced by those who gather to honor forgotten lives. It is pierced by people like my friend John. Perhaps the lesson for all of us, especially those navigating the difficult road of chronic illness, is this: Even when our strength is limited, our capacity to care for others never is.

Note: Myasthenia Gravis News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Myasthenia Gravis News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to myasthenia gravis.