What a costly commodity—time!
One of the regrets from my adolescent days showed up with all the welcome of a recurrence of acne in menopause.
It’s not easy to tell this story. But I probably need its reminder, even now. And you may find application for your situation with your aging parents.
For a number of reasons, some of which didn’t emerge until after my parents were deceased, my mother worked full-time as a night nurse throughout the entirety of my childhood. She was an excellent nurse and devoted herself wholeheartedly to the profession, working extra shifts whenever needed.
As the oldest of five children, I may have felt the loss of her presence—her working all night and attempting to sleep during the day—most keenly. My siblings may disagree, and they have every right.
Dad worked long days. Mom worked long nights. Early in my childhood, I took over many of the responsibilities of homemaking and childcare for my younger brothers and sisters.
I don’t regret all that. It formed much of my character, I’m sure, and equipped me with life skills that some of my friends didn’t develop until after they were married.
But during my junior high and early high school years—maybe as a natural response to our circumstances, maybe because drama is never far from a junior higher’s mind—the ache of not having Mom available like other mothers were, came to an inflamed head.
I longed for her time, not her paycheck.
That almost seems laughable now, because her paycheck was an absolute necessity. I had no doubt she loved me, but I wanted time with her and told her so—not with tender words, but in an eruption of teenage angst.
Years later, she would be the one begging for my time. Her world had been reduced to an eight-by-ten room at the end of a dark hall in a hospice aging facility.
And I had a choice to make.
God had softened my heart. I chose to give her what I felt I hadn’t received. And we were both better for it.
As it is for many people, serving my mother was as much a spiritual endeavor as it was an act of love.
Her congestive heart failure created so many side complications for her. The system has changed now, but throughout the nine months Mom spent at the hospice residence facility, meals were a constant problem for her.
She’d lost her sense of smell and taste, so one would think it didn’t matter what was on the plate in front of her. But it did.
Her body was so sensitive to salt that even a low-salt diet had too much sodium in it. The facility’s contract for meals couldn’t accommodate a no-salt diet. So Mom’s choices were limited even further.
The only thing I could think to do was to prepare most of her food at home. I scoured the aisles of the grocery stores for cooking ingredients with no salt. Her appetite had dwindled to a few tablespoons of a casserole or a quarter cup of soup. But her mind’s appetite appreciated variety and foods she’d always loved.
Loving her and obeying God included preparing and packing miniature-sized portions of “fancy” food—colorful, visually appealing, and healthy—which I hauled to the facility and left in their kitchen’s freezer.
When the stockpile grew low, I’d go on the hunt in the grocery aisles again and do my best to create meals that would satisfy her but not tax her failing body.
I had a clear sense that the time it took to provide those meals was less chef-like and more “your spiritual act of service”-like, drawing the idea from Romans 12:1: “Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship” (NASB).
Serving my mother held an air of holiness. In her last few days on earth, she often commented that Jesus was sitting in the corner of her room—just on the other side of the commode, which seemed highly inappropriate but tender at the same time.
Maybe the fact that she lived those months so close to the edge of eternity is what gave a perception that it was an act of worship, service to God, to take time to rub lotion on her back or keep searching for a strong-enough magnifying glass or set aside other responsibilities and prepare salt-free lasagna, which is no small feat.
Harriet Hodgson wrote of ten spiritual aspects of caregiving in a December 2015 blog post. You can probably think of more to add from your own experience with your aging parents.
Caregiving is love in action.
Caregiving makes us practice patience.
Caregiving causes us to look inward.
Caregiving links us with the past, present, and future.
Caregiving makes us aware of the joy of giving.
Caregiving leads us in new directions.
Caregiving is a learning experience.
Caregiving brings out the best in us.
Caregiving helps us see what is important.
Caregiving honors the miracle of each and every life.
I might amend a point or two, noting that caregiving brings out both the best and the worst in us and sometimes is the vehicle God uses to take us to a place where our hearts need to be.
Of the things
That occupy my time, Lord,
Serving my parents
For their sake
And in Your name
May be
The most honorable,
Challenging
And soul-satisfying
Of all.