I had no idea the man would become someone I would come to admire.
For a long time, we stood on opposite sides of some sharp differences. Our views didn’t simply disagree; they seemed to grow thorns.
I let those differences cloud how I saw him, and instead of looking for what we had in common, I focused on where we didn’t agree.
Funny how easily disagreement can become a lens.
Then his wife received a diagnosis of lung cancer, and somehow, through her suffering, God began doing surgery on my heart, changing my view and my spiritual eyesight.
One day, I received a text from him: “You’re welcome in our home.”
I had never been inside before. For years, I’d been friends with his wife, but never stepped into their house.
That simple invitation did something I cannot fully explain. In one moment of kindness, much of what had kept us at a distance loosened its grip. The wall did not fall with a crash. It simply stopped mattering.
And then I began watching him love his wife.
I watched him stand beside her through lung cancer, brain surgery, blood clots and rehabilitation. I watched him adjust to her loss of mobility, a wheelchair, appointments, scans, pain and uncertainty.
He was there when she wheezed and when she wept. He was there when she needed lifting, turning or repositioning in bed. He was there for CAT scans, MRIs, radiation appointments and doctor visits. He was there when setbacks arrived, when pain intensifi ed, and when another hospital stay became necessary.
He was there when doctors brought difficult news about aggressive new masses and the possibility of more clots.
Not merely present, but attentive.
He spoke for her when she needed a voice. He advocated for her. He lifted her carefully. He held a sandwich so she could take a bite and a drink so she could swallow.
And yes, he even used WD-40 on a squeaky hospital-room door to eliminate the noise.
That detail stayed with me because love often looks less like grand speeches and more like noticing the squeak.
I had spent too much time noticing what irritated me about him.
Now I was watching a man notice what irritated his hurting wife, and he quietly made her world easier.
His compassion has been firm, bold, and tender. He has embraced the role before him without applause and without stepping away when life became hard. Watching him changed the way I saw him.
More importantly, it changed how I see myself.
I find myself praying that the WD-40 of God’s compassion would work its way into the rusty places of my heart. I want the Lord to loosen the creaks of pride, resentment, and judgment. I want to remember that another person is always more than the one thing about them I do not understand or agree with.
God’s loving-kindness does that. It calls us to repentance. It softens what has grown hard. It reminds us that Christ did not wait for us to become agreeable before He loved us.
And maybe that is the best picture of love I know: a Savior who sees every broken place, every stubborn place, and every wounded place, yet still draws us near.
So I am thankful for an unexpected friendship.
Thankful for my friend’s husband who showed me what love in action looks like. And thankful for a God who can use cancer, a hospital room, and even a can of WD-40 to teach me how much my own heart still needs work.
“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence, and take not your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.” —Psalm 51:10–12
