In 1964, Stan Guillaume became my brother-in-law. For sixty-one years, he has been an important part of my life—wise, kind, committed to Christ, and a wonderful companion to my sister Ruth.
Mary Gayle became my sister-in-law in August of 1977. It was a wedding in Ottawa, Canada, where she was from. Together, she and Sam built a beautiful life. Her quiet strength provided the perfect companionship for my brother.
This week, Mary and I traveled to Chicago to visit Stan and Ruth—and also Mary Gayle and Sam. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law remain faithfully, tenderly, and deeply committed to my siblings. But now both of them have become caregivers. The individuals they married are not the same people they were just five years ago. Their situations differ, but the gravity and implications of their journeys are strikingly similar. My sister and brother—both once highly capable and successful—have lost the freedom and independence that once defined them. They simply aren’t who they used to be.
And so, for Stan and Mary Gayle, life is weightier. Lonelier. More confusing.
What was simple has become complex. The world shrinks. Schedules evaporate.
I ache for them, even as my gratitude and respect for them swell. I only witnessed a fraction of what they experience day after day. I feel the sadness, in ways I haven’t fully processed. But then I hop back in my rental car with Mary and head to Denver. Not them. Not ever again. Yet in these selfless acts of love and commitment, Stan and Mary Gayle show me Jesus. They point to Him, even as they cling to Him. Uncertainty has not eroded their confidence in the goodness of God.
“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.”
(Matthew 25:35–36)
Separated by roughly twenty-five miles, Stan and Mary Gayle live into this commendation of Jesus. They are the sole providers for those who were once completely self-reliant. They care for strangers who they once knew intimately. They tend to the everyday needs exposed by cognitive decline. And they willingly step into the prison cell of intellectual loss, inhabiting it with competence and commitment.
I honor them today—as I honor the many, many others who walk through this extraordinary pain of loss.
Caregivers. From the heart of Jesus, into the lives of my sister and brother.
Stan and Mary Gayle—bless you. Thank you.
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