We can’t make ourselves feel grander
by making our parents appear smaller.
I say I lost my mom on a certain date in November 2015,” my friend Tricia told me. “But that’s not accurate. The date marked the last of a string of losses that began many years earlier, soon after she was diagnosed. All the little losses added up to the big emptiness of her leaving me for heaven.”
Tricia described how so many of the activities that had bonded them all their lives faded away, one by one, as her mother became weaker and disinterested. Her mother grew—as many do—more helpless, dependent, and frail. “I eventually had to bathe her. We used the tub in which she’d bathed her children over the years. Every time I assisted her into the tub and took that washcloth to clean her skin, I would thank God for the sacred grace. It was overwhelming to bathe my mother’s frail, weak body. That she would let me do it and receive the help graciously was by far the most tender experience of my life.”
I remember similar moments with my mom and also when my husband went through a season of needing my full-time assistance for the simplest of his physical needs.
“I care. Let me help you.” The words can be met with a variety of responses, some heartbreaking.
A toddler says, “No! I can do it myself!”
A teen says, “I don’t want . . . or need . . . your help.”
A mature adult says, “Thanks. I could use it.”
Aging parents could respond in any of those three ways on any given day. Their emotional fluctuations may be governed by mood, pain, confusion, disorientation, frustration, shame, remorse, loss of dignity, fear for the future. . . . Parents may say exactly what they mean—“I don’t want your help”—or the opposite of what they mean.
Our human drive for independence starts young. With only brief interruptions, it continues and often intensifies as we mature. But part of the fallout of our later years is the dreaded loss of independence. The mother who once fed and clothed her children now requires similar help from those same children. The father who taught his sons to change a tire now depends on them to transport him to medical appointments. In the early stages of role reversal, the loss of independence may be slight and seem insignificant to us but loom large in our parents’ eyes.
“Mom, are you eating enough?”
“Dad. Dad? You left your keys in the door.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom. I forget names at times too.”
Our desire to help isn’t always met with a response that seems logical, much less grateful. But wasn’t it like that when the one we sought to help was a young child? And what did we do then? We leaned on God’s wisdom to tell us if it was time to press through and help anyway or step back and give the child a chance to try.
Those who care for parents expressing gratitude for the kindnesses shown them—sometimes sacrificial kindnesses that have taken us far out of our way or our comfort limits—find that gratitude fuels energy for more caregiving. A grateful parent—like a grateful child—adds the element of tenderness my friend Tricia saw marking her relationship with her ailing mother.
Try a little tenderness. It’s not just a thought a lyricist invented last century. It’s a way of life proposed by the God who knew we would face seasons that naturally lack tenderness, who knew we’d need the reminder.
Tricia applied the tenderness philosophy to the mounting difficulties she encountered as connections she shared with her mother disintegrated. No more shopping together. No more shared jokes—her mother had forgotten her half. No more letting conversations wander wherever they wanted to go. No more annual mother-daughter retreats. No more dependence on her mother’s embrace and wisdom when Tricia was hurting—her mother hurt more. No more admitting to her mother how much she needed her. It would have caused her mother greater distress.
“The most tender moment I had with my late eighty-three-year-old dad,” my friend Jackie said, “was when I had to leave all my sons and their families, including all my grandchildren, my husband, my home, and my dog behind in Ohio to travel to South Carolina to help my dad move back there. But he became ill and could no longer be alone. The month the trip was supposed to take turned into a little over a year, with me as his caregiver. One day he looked over at me and said ‘Thank you. No one else would have done this for me.’ ”
“I treasure those words,” Jackie said. “He was always a very independent person. I know how hard it was for him to lose his health and mobility. He was always my hero and I miss him, but I am grateful for that year we had together.”
What’s at the core of our resistance to serve as caregivers for our aging parents—whether in a full-time capacity or in small role-reversal ways? Have you wrestled with any of these joy-stealing thoughts?
•It’s an intrusion on my life plan. Just when the pieces are coming together for me to enjoy a little freedom—just as the nest is emptying and my kids don’t need me so heavily—now my parents do. I hate to admit it. I love my parents. But their needs are intrusive.
•Psychologically, I don’t like seeing my parents so dependent on me. And I’m sure they don’t derive pleasure from needing me as much as they do.
•My life is full. The stress I’m managing cannot take one more hit.
•I want to help. I have no clue how. Every attempt is apparently the opposite of what they really need.
•I’m afraid. There. I said it. I don’t want to lose the relationship we had when we stood on equal footing.
•My parents haven’t been easy to get along with. Ever. I dread this season. Does that make me unredeemable?
•Their needing me couldn’t have come at a worse time. Just being honest. My career is finally taking off.
Statements like the above aren’t linked to a lack of love. In fact, love for our parents often makes confessing those core issues so guilt-laden that we don’t admit them to anyone, even to ourselves.
Others of us find the role reversal far less of a system shock. We’re divinely gifted for it, expecting it, prepared and blessed by the opportunity to serve our parents.
No matter what motivation is at work beneath the surface, we can know God’s will in the matter.
“But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith,” says 1 Timothy 5:8 (ESV).
“ ‘Honor your father and mother’ (this is the first commandment with a promise), ‘that it may go well with you and that you may live long in the land’ ” (Ephesians 6:2–3 ESV).
The only questions that remain are, “How?” And “How, in this unique season?”
Lord God,
When what You ask of me
In caring for my parents
Creates discomfort,
Remind me
That love
And sacrifice
Are practically synonymous
And that
On that score too,
You
Paved
The
Way.