". . .he took water and washed his hands in the presence of the crowd, saying, I am not guilty of or responsible for this. . ." Matthew 27: 24b (TAB)

"Here", she said, handing me the white telephone memo/message slip. 

"What's this?" I ask wondering who on earth had called, my hands too full to read the name.  It is unusual for me to get phone calls as most of my patients know my number and call me directly. 

"Just call them back," the receptionist said with a shrug. 

Ambling down the hallway I find a way to maneuver the paper.  The name is from a patients wife and I tick off the options.  Can't be for ministry to the patient, he's dead.  Can't be to do the funeral, it's already been done.  Can't be for bereavement because the pertinent information has been sent to the bereavement coordinator for follow up.  Wonder why she's calling me.  Oh, well, only one way to find out.

Sighing I reach my office, dump my armload of stuff and pick up the phone.  "Hello, Ms. Jane," I say into the receiver, falling into the Southern mode of address, title and first name.  In the South it's a sign of familiarity and respect. 

She greets me warmly and we speak for a few minutes of generalities (another form of Southern politeness, it's considered a little rude to get right to the point before the pleasantries have been discussed -- how's your mama, how's the kids, enjoying the weather, etc.) before she says, "Can you come by?  I have something I'd like to talk with you about and I'd rather not do it over the phone." 

Looking at my schedule, biggest piece of fiction ever written, I tell her I'd be able to come by just after lunch.  She thought that would work and we hang up. 

Standing at the door I wonder for the umpteenth time what this is about.  I am graciously ushered inside and offered a drink and a seat.  I sit down opposite her as she sits on the couch and notice photo albums are out on the coffee table.  She brings the drink and sits down beginning to tell me all that has transpired in the last few days since her husband's death and funeral.  I listen offering encouragement and empathy, asking a question here, murmuring a soothing comment there. 

Patting the couch seat next to her she motions for me to join her and she begins to go through the photo albums.  This is when they first married, this is when we had our first child, and on we go through the years, the memories, the glads and sads of a long and happy marriage.  We get to the months before he is diagnosed and she turns to me with tears in her eyes, "Everything changed."  I wait, "we didn't know what was wrong but he changed, things between us changed and then when we did finally find out what was going on, everything changed."  I nod.  Saying nothing.

We've stopped looking at the pictures and she sobs, "I've always wanted to be a good wife, a good mother but when things changed. . ."  She looks at me and I gently prod her forward.  She continues, "We've always shared a bed.  In all the years of our marriage we never slept apart but I just couldn't do it anymore.  He would wet the bed and then he would. . ." she sobbed.  "I failed as a wife and didn't fulfill my wifely duties."  Wifely duties???  Wifely du. . .oh, wait, wifely duties. . .oh, the light of comprehension is beginning to dawn.  Lord, help me be delicate about this. "Why do you think you didn't fulfill your wifely duties?" I ask.  Sobbing she shares how she began to sleep in a separate bed and to avoid her husbands advances.  She found the person he became to difficult to reconcile with the person she married. 

I listen with genuine sorrow at the pain this woman has been carrying for all these months. We talk about what love is and how that love is manifested.  I remind her that she kept her vows, until death do us part, and express understanding about "wifely duties".

"It's difficult," I say, "to maintain a normal marriage relationship in some very abnormal circumstances.  Often the disease process makes it impossible to sleep in the same bed even if you want to and you were not just his wife but also his caregiver.  You needed rest and so did he.  Considering his disease, I don't really think he thought you were any less of a wife -- let me ask you something , have you ever corrected your children?" 

"Yes," she said surprised.

"Have they said they will be angry with you forever?"

"Yes."

"Did that stop you from being their mother?"

"No, of course not." she whispers.

"Well, just like you didn't stop being a mother, you didn't stop being a wife because of the circumstances.  You were, have been and are Jack's wife." 

She begins to smile.  "Will you do something for me?  Will you seal this for me." 

"Absolutely."  I say. 

Leading me to her dining room table I see that she is prepared.  There is a bowl, a towel and a pitcher of water.  She places her hands over the bowl and I begin to pray as I pour the water over her hands.  I pray for the cleansing of her heart, her memories, her guilt.  Praying that she remember she is a child of God, loved and cherished, that she is a good and faithful wife, and that she be set free in her God.  Drying her hands tenderly, we hug. 

She walks me to the door and thanks me for being there.  Driving away I realize why she called me.  Active in her church, her pastor (a man) may not have understood her pain, her sorrow or worse may have thought she wasn't capable to continue serving because of her (in her eyes) failure as a wife.  I find myself once again praising God for allowing me to be part of people's lives.  I find myself wondering what kind of wife I am.

Lord, thank you for giving me the privilege of being part of Your people's lives.  Father, help me to hear, really hear, the cry of your children's hearts and minister to their deeper needs not just be satisfied to bind the surface wounds but to truly bind up the broken hearted.  Thank you for this woman who trusted me enough to share her pain, for giving me the words to spread the balm of Gilead, and for the healing that has taken place in her and in me.  Help me, Lord, to learn how to be a better wife from this moment on.  Amen.