Tape measure in hand, I circled the oversized table crammed into a small dining area. Dutifully I measured the fabric hanging from each edge, ensuring that the worn vinyl table cloth was centered. I placed the two glass candlesticks on either side of the pinecone spray.

This level of attention to detail felt ridiculous. By this time in our relationship, Mrs. P was not able to get up from her bed to come and check if I had painstakingly measured (as apparently was her practice). But for four hours every Thursday afternoon, I was her charge, and I aimed to please. I didn’t want to end up like the previous string of hospice volunteers who had been dismissed after a week or two for not being up to snuff.

Five years ago, after completing four months of training, I found myself standing on the slanted cement doorstep of a small ranch house in the middle of town. Nervous, I fiddled with my professional-looking name badge, waiting for someone to answer the door. Despite my pastoral care training, I wasn’t sure what to expect behind the 1950s-era wooden door. From the volunteer coordinator’s description of the assignment, I knew there was a challenge coming.

While my new friend was exacting in her requests, I realized we learned to know each other well over the weeks, having such a concentrated set of hours to share. In the beginning, I made meals, and she shuffled out to check that I’d cut the onion finely enough or to taste the seasoning in my sloppy joes. Each week, I washed the lunch dishes and tidied the kitchen before joining her for the daily soap opera. Sometimes I arranged the seasonal décor or altered her favorite slacks so they stayed on her shrinking frame.

Each week, after completing her list of chores, I settled into the padded chair in the corner of her bedroom and pulled a novel out of my bag. She assured me I should use the time to read, but after I turned a few pages, she struck up a conversation, wondering what I was cooking for dinner that night or what my weekend plans were.

I always tried to engage her, learning about her life and family. And as it turned out, the end wasn’t so immanent for this dear soul. Our weekly ritual continued over many months. Whether she intended it or not, she was having an impact on my life.

Because my time with her overlapped with the holidays and because this is the time of year when I turn reflective and assess where I am in life and what hopes and dreams I have for the coming year, I pulled out my journal to remember the lessons Mrs. P shared with me as I witnessed her wrestling with the reality of losing physical abilities and dancing with death.

• No matter where you are in life, there is always greener grass. It’s easy to see perks and benefits in others’ lives. How can we cultivate a heart of gratitude for our present circumstances?
• The habits you cultivate over your lifetime will continue. It may become your legacy, so consider how you are who you are. There’s no time like the present to be the kind of person you really want to be.
• Who you are is more important than what you do. You may not always have a career to define yourself, so keep working at being who you are called to be more than doing what you may choose to do. Your identity will be with you no matter what title, role or position you hold or lose.
• Each day has its gifts and challenges. Find something to love about every day. You don’t know how many you have, and you may have more than you think. How are you making the most of the time you do have?
• Invest in people. Enjoy your time with family. You may not always be able to get together. Treasure the good times and savor the memory-making opportunities you do have. Strong relationships, dear friends and sweet memories can get you through many difficult things.
• When facing a terminal illness, ultimately, money can’t buy your health. And having nice stuff won’t make you feel better. Having a house full of stuff just leaves more for you to care for, sort through and give away. Money and possessions are great distractions, allowing for the illusion of control.

Crisis brings perspective. Don’t sweat the small stuff—and most of it is small.

Sherah-Leigh Gerber is director of advancement for Virginia Mennonite Missions. She lives with her husband and two young children in Harrisonburg, Va.

This ran in the December issue of The Mennonite.