The Day I Learned Faithfulness Isn’t a Pinterest Word

Some dates land in your life like a dropped plate—loud, sudden, and impossible to ignore.

October 27, 2018 was one of those days.

I remember reading the headlines about the Tree of Life Synagogue massacre in Pittsburgh and feeling that specific kind of sick that isn’t exactly nausea—it’s grief mixed with disbelief mixed with how is this still real life? Eleven people murdered in a place where people went to pray. A man walking in with weapons and hate, shouting things no human being should ever have in their mouth.

And then I read that he was transported—critically injured—to Allegheny General Hospital.

Which is where my brain did that little unhelpful thing it always does in moments like this: it tried to picture the scene.

The ER. The hallway. The chaos. The fear. The noise. The staff trying to keep someone alive while also trying not to fall apart inside. I have been in emergency rooms enough to know the vibe. (If frequent‑flier miles existed for hospital bracelets, my family would be in first class.) ERs are already pressure cookers. Add national tragedy and hatred and a patient who’s still verbally raging? I can’t even imagine.

And then I read what happened next.

A Jewish nurse walked into that room

One of the nurses caring for the shooter was named Ari Mahler.

A Jewish nurse.

And—here’s the part that still makes my throat tighten—at the time, he did not know whether his own parents, who were members of that synagogue, were among the victims.

Let that sit for a second.

Because my first reaction was not saintly. It was not, wow, what courage.

It was more like:

I would have needed to lie down.
Possibly on the floor.
Possibly with a paper bag.
Possibly with security guarding my facial expressions, because my face does not know how to be discreet.

And yet Ari did his job.

He treated the person who caused the horror.

Not because the horror wasn’t real.
Not because the grief didn’t matter.
Not because evil suddenly became less evil.

But because his calling—his humanity—required compassion as an action, even while his emotions were likely on fire.

He later explained (in his own publicly shared words) that he couldn’t share details because of HIPAA, but he could share what guided him: kindness, empathy, and the belief that love‑as‑action is more powerful than love‑as‑slogan. He wanted the perpetrator to feel compassion. He believed the best way to honor the victims was to refuse to become what hate was trying to create.

That’s the moment my brain did a second unhelpful thing.

It immediately held Ari’s faithfulness up next to my own.

And, well… we are not in the same weight class.

My faithfulness is… more aspirational, if I’m honest. I want to be the kind of person who loves like that.

But most days my “faithfulness” looks like this:

staying calm when someone cuts me off in traffic
being patient when the printer jams
responding kindly when someone is unkind (and then rehearsing my comeback in the shower two days later)

So when I read about Ari Mahler, I didn’t feel inspired in a shiny, motivational‑poster way. I felt humbled—and forced to rethink what faithfulness in relationships actually looks like.

Because his story exposed something I don’t love admitting: faithfulness is easy when people deserve it.
And it’s a whole different thing when they don’t.

And yes—before anyone emails me—this isn’t me saying “be faithful to people who are unsafe.” No. Not that. Not ever. There are situations where the most faithful thing you can do is create distance, get help, and protect yourself.

What I am saying is simpler—and harder:

Faithfulness, at its core, is often the choice to keep your humanity intact when your emotions are begging you to throw it like a chair.

Jesus did that.

And more.

Jesus wasn’t distant from pain or insulated from cruelty. He entered it fully. He stayed human—fully human—while also being fully God. He saw betrayal coming and loved anyway. He knew suffering was ahead and didn’t opt out. He chose obedience, presence, and love when every human instinct would have said, Enough.

And as much as I admire Ari in this moment, I don’t just want to be like him in rare, heroic circumstances.

I want to be like Jesus in the ordinary ones.

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Luke 23:34

Faith Note (because I always want you to know where I’m coming from)

I believe in Jesus, and I know not everyone does. If you don’t believe like I do, that’s okay. I’m still glad you’re here, and I hope you feel welcome in this space.

The part about faithfulness in relationships that surprised me

Ari’s story made me think about how we usually talk about faithfulness in relationships.

We tend to picture it as big vows and big moments:

staying married
not cheating
not leaving

Which matters. Absolutely.

But his story pulled my focus to a quieter, daily kind of faithfulness—the kind that shows up in small choices when nobody is applauding you on cable news.

The kind that says:

I will keep my integrity, even if you don’t.
I will not become less human because someone else chose to be.
I will do what is right, even when I don’t feel warm and glowy about it.

That’s what surprised me most: his care wasn’t denial. It was defiance.

Not chest‑puffing defiance.
Defiance that refuses to let hate make you hateful.

And if we’re honest, that’s the battle inside most relationships too—just on a smaller, safer scale.

Because even in good marriages (especially in good marriages), there are moments when someone disappoints you, misunderstands you, speaks too sharply, shuts down, forgets what mattered, chooses selfishly, or acts like a tired human with flaws.

So then what?

Most of us aren’t facing anything as extreme as what Ari faced. Thank God.

But we are facing the everyday choice:
Do I stay kind?
Do I stay steady?
Do I stay committed to who God is shaping me to be?

And if I’m honest, I don’t always nail it.

I can stay faithful for sixty years like my parents did… and still occasionally want to be dramatic and announce, “I’m moving into the guest room forever,” because someone chewed too loud.

What I’m taking with me (and maybe you will too)

I don’t think Ari Mahler’s story is meant to make the rest of us feel small.

I think it’s meant to remind us what love looks like when it’s not just a feeling.

Not sentimental.
Not performative.
Not a social media quote in a script font.

Action.
Steady.
Human.

And maybe that’s the best definition of faithfulness I’ve found:

Faithfulness is love that stays rooted—especially when your feelings are trying to uproot it.

I’m still learning. I’m still the girl who sometimes needs a minute before responding kindly. I’m still the woman who prays for self‑control and then immediately gets tested in the Walmart parking lot.

But I can’t un‑see this story.

A nurse.
A stretcher.
A choice.

Love in the face of evil.
Humanity refusing to surrender.

And somehow—mysteriously—that kind of love doesn’t just reflect goodness.

It reveals God.

FAQ

Q: What does faithfulness in relationships really mean?

A: I’m learning it’s less about grand declarations and more about steady presence—choosing integrity and kindness even when your emotions would rather storm out dramatically.

I have a song for everything. I always do.