….And Jesus Wept

Mary therefore, when she came where Jesus was, and saw him, fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.  When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping who came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him? They say unto him, Lord, come and see.  Jesus wept.

John 11:32-35

Jesus knew, as he approached the tomb where his friend Lazarus had been laid, that he was going to raise him from the dead.  It was not a crisis of faith that brought tears to his eyes–rather, Jesus was touched by the sorrow of Lazarus’ sisters Mary and Martha and of his friends.  Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints; yet we cry, for we are human and we miss the person we have loved.

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When I first met her, half a century ago, Ruth Louise Koewler Schiffer, daughter of an Ohio tobacco farmer and mother of one son and six lovely daughters, stood a proud 4’10” tall. Years later, the cartilage in her knees and her joints had degenerated until she was barely 4’6” in height, leaning for support on her walker—but still she was a giant among women, an inspiration to all.

My mother-in-law was the kindest and the bravest person I’ve ever met.

In her 40s, she was the quintessential Proverbs 31 woman: managing her small home, bulging as it was with a husband and seven children and their various friends. She could stretch two pounds of ground beef to feed a family of nine (My boyfriend–later to be my husband–joked, “How now, ground cow?”), and she served up culinary mysteries like “ketchup toast” for the school-age children’s lunches. Her garden thrived under her careful hand: roses and perennials in the side garden, tomatoes and cucumbers in the back.

I cherished the occasional invitation to dinner at her home in those days. I was dating her only son; but I knew most of the blonde Schiffer girls, too—one in every grade, friends from the library club or the National Honor Society or another school activity. The younger girls, still in elementary school, giggled nervously around the kitchen table. I, suave and sophisticated as any fifteen-year-old could imagine herself to be, didn’t giggle out loud. I was nervous, too, but Mrs. Schiffer tried so hard to put me at ease with second helpings of turkey and gravy.

During the day, there was always something to be done: cooking and baking, weeding the flower beds, ironing for her family and for neighbors, laundry for her active family. In the evening, if she sat to watch a little television, her hands kept busy crocheting afghans and baby bonnets and towels for family and as gifts.

On Sundays, she took the Eucharist to members of the parish who could not get out of the house to attend Mass.

As the years passed and as arthritis wracked her tiny frame, Ruth Schiffer could no longer stand at the sink, hand washing the dishes as the aroma from her custard pies wafted through the air. But when ill health brought her ministry of hospitality to a close, she served us in another way: She prayed for us. She watched the televised Mass each day—or more likely, more than once a day. She prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. She prayed the Rosary. She prayed for each of us, by name and by inference; praying for our special needs, praying that God would bless each of us with the gift of faith.

On August 23, at the age of 96, Ruth Schiffer went home to God. On the white board in her hospital room, nurses posted a daily goal each day of her hospitalization. On the day she died, the message she’d dictated was scrawled in black marker: “Thank you to everyone who helped to care for me.”

I love you, Mom. Say hi to Jesus for me.