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I have a great aunt named Martha.  She is now 89. In my younger days, as it goes with youth, I hardly noticed Martha—I saw only a smiling face and an occasional hug. Nothing more, nothing less. She was just another relative who seemed to be like all of my other many relatives.  

Martha and Vern never made the small town newspaper, never held office on the local town counsel, were never recognized for some outstanding work.  Her tiny house never won best lawn of the summer, or best Christmas decorations of the year. From the outside looking in, Martha and Vern just existed. 

But what I didn’t realize at the time, Martha and Vern were a part of a people who performed invisible good. They kept a close lookout for God in the boring muck of everyday life and jumped right in. But few noticed. 

I first noticed when my mother lay dying in a coma from a car accident. She and Vern came to the hospital and stayed with me. Not just a short visit. They stayed long after everyone had left. Not just for one day. Every day for almost a week. They never said much, but they were always there until the day Mom left us. 

After that, I paid attention to this quiet, unassuming couple.  

There were the small things. When a friend broke a hip, Martha took the time to purchase a small jar filled with candy orange slices. She knew her friend loved those things. She told me that a gift doesn’t have to be expensive, but it does need to be something special. It’s like that little treat that only your mother knows about. When the friend saw Martha, and saw the special treat in her hands, she threw up her arms in delight. 

Then there were the big things. The husband of an elderly neighbor couple lay dying of cancer.  As he grew weak, the wife could no longer take care of her husband. Martha and Vern hated to see him be moved to a cold, strange room for his final days. Vern stood over six-feet, five-inches and weighed every bit of 250. Even though aging, he still looked strong as an ox. So Martha and Vern helped take care of the dying neighbor. Everyday, Vern was there to aid the dying man in bathing and other necessities of life. He literally picked the man up in order to help him. Not just on occasion, but every day.  No pay. No notice. No nothing.

These were not exceptions in the lives of Martha and Vern… they were the common. 

We lost Vern only a year or so ago to Leukemia. 

Now, Martha lives in the same retirement home as my Dad. In some ways, I’m glad because I get to see her more. Even at 89, she’s still very active. She helps with the retirement center’s monthly newsletter, making sure it gets mailed out. She still sees all the little opportunities around her. She never stops.

It’s funny, but if you had asked me as youth what I thought of Martha, I would have shrugged and said how she had lived a good life. But, at the time, in the depths of my mind, I didn’t think her life amounted to much.  Now, I look and I think—a wasted life?  Hardly…