Daily Sauntering

Among our American church members in Queens Village, there is a woman named Margaret McGowan. Every time I see her—a 76-year-old great-grandmother—I am reminded of how strong and resilient the human will can be when grounded in faith. Her 100-year-old mother, blind all her life, lives in a nursing home. That woman was a strict, disciplined mother to her five children and a loving grandmother to her grandchildren.

In her community, Margaret is a respected figure, and in the church, she is a lay leader and sings alto in the choir. She has also been a mother figure to many underprivileged children, having cared for over 140 foster children throughout her life.

In short, she is a “superwoman,” although her life was not shaped by an especially privileged environment or extraordinary talents. She was the humble wife of a police officer. Her husband passed away about ten years ago, and now she shares her home with one of her grown grandchildren.

After observing her life for over six years, we thought that she might eventually slow down or lose interest in church and social activities—but she has never once abandoned or neglected the responsibilities entrusted to her.

One of the deepest sorrows in her life was the loss of her second son, Bill. Just one month after receiving his Ph.D. in Physics, he was killed in a car accident. Margaret, though consumed by grief, pulled herself together. She lovingly supported her beautiful daughter-in-law and helped her find a second chance at happiness by introducing her to a reliable young man. She fervently prayed that her daughter-in-law, still traumatized, would be able to conceive. When she finally did, Margaret rejoiced more than anyone else.

Yet, tragedy struck again four years later. Her youngest son, Douglas, passed away at the young age of 47.

As a child, Douglas once fell into a coma due to a high fever and remained unconscious for three months. That incident caused brain damage, leaving him developmentally behind and afflicted with epilepsy. When he was 22, he finally earned his driver’s license. On his first drive, he came back home with a car full of dents—but the entire family and neighborhood celebrated that moment with tears of joy.

After serving in the Navy, Douglas got a job at city hall. He used to say that getting that job was nothing short of a miracle made possible by his “Boss above.” But eventually, due to seizures, he could no longer drive and had to commute by bicycle. One rainy summer day, while riding home from work, he lost control, crashed into a fence, and sustained a fatal head injury.

Margaret used to say she wished there had been a woman who could love Douglas just as he was. On the day of his funeral, she cried out loud for the first—and last—time.

Even in the midst of such deep sorrow, Margaret never missed choir practice or arrived late. A few years ago, near Christmas, she sang a solo in the alto part of the song “O Holy Child of Bethlehem.” That same song, which she had sung 30 years earlier in her middle age, she now sang again with a trembling, fragile voice—like a deflated balloon—yet she completed it without hesitation or yielding, despite the choir director’s stern instructions. Her resolve to do everything she can while she still can is truly admirable.

I recall seeing her at church just one week after being discharged from gallbladder surgery. Driving herself, she showed not only her strong will but also her pure, unwavering faith.

One day, I asked her, “How were you able to take in so many foster children?”

With a gentle smile, she replied, “That was when our children were still young. One day, I saw a photo of two boys in the newspaper. The caption read, ‘Is there an empty room in your heart for these children?’ I found out that their single mother had to go to prison. Really, what was the difference between my kids and those boys? So I talked it over with my family, and we took them in. After that, more and more children came.”

Margaret says she kept an empty room in her heart all her life.

Many of her foster children went on to become successful—business owners, office workers, factory employees, and even community leaders. But there was also a tragedy. One girl, lured by a drug dealer, was murdered at the age of 16. That sorrow remains in all our hearts.

Margaret’s life principle is to always do her best, never give up, accept the outcome, and never dwell on the past with regret.

Now approaching eighty, Margaret still lives by a one- or two-year schedule. She fills every moment with purpose. She reads the Bible daily and meditates on the Word. In spring, she plants flower seeds and shares the seedlings with her neighbors. To the children in the neighborhood, she’s both a friend and a strict “tiger grandma.” To impolite and thoughtless adults, she never hesitates to speak boldly. A tender story can move her to tears, and she quietly drinks from life’s bitter cup—day by day—with grace.

I ask myself:
How many times have I stood before a bitter cup and simply given up?
In my relationships, as a mother, wife, and believer, how often have I neglected the roles only I could fulfill?
How often have I turned a blind eye to the bitter cups of the church and society—homelessness, poverty, child abuse, discrimination, crime, sickness—when what was truly needed was a volunteer, an advocate, or simply someone who cared?

This year again, the Lord, facing the suffering of the cross, prays on the Mount of Olives in the deep of night, sweating blood, crying out to Heaven:

“Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.”

I am certain that Margaret, who has faithfully drunk life’s bitter cups with obedience and trust, will be the first to run to the Lord on Resurrection morning.

This Lent, I kneel before my own bitter cup and humbly fold my hands—praying for a life of fullness and surrender.