Caring for aging parents
is part of our own maturing process.
The hardest thing about watching my mother age (now that I’m almost sixty and she’s almost eighty),” Candice says, “is knowing that time is passing very quickly. It’s the realization of her mortality. And it’s also the inevitability of a good-bye that used to seem so far in the distance but is now foreseeable.”
Teen parents learn quickly that they’re not the center of the universe anymore. If they don’t learn the lesson, their parenting falls apart. As our parents age, we go through a similar transition, realizing that whether or not we anticipated how all-consuming this season would be, we must either grow up and step up or check out. And checking out was never God’s intention.
“All the treasures of wisdom and knowledge are hidden in him” (Colossians 2:3 CEB).
If we try to navigate these rough waters by our instincts alone, we will likely miss the hazards, the warnings that the bridge is out over that stretch of water, the depth-finders, the Class V rapids, the. . . .
God never intended us to bear it all on our shoulders, even though it feels as if that’s what’s happening sometimes. He offers wisdom. It’s hidden in Christ. Hidden, but accessible to those who are looking for it, who remain observant, who spend more time listening for His direction than they do plotting survival techniques.
It is planned obsolescence for the human body to fade and leave the earth—but planned by the heart of a caring, loving God. When autumn arrives in the upper Midwest, colors change and the landscape reveals the “bones” hidden during summer’s lush greenery. The woodlands open up visually, with the undergrowth now gone until spring. Winter’s on the horizon, its crisp tang in the wind a constant reminder.
Autumn is no accident. It’s a carefully orchestrated dance. It’s creation’s crescendo before its hibernation. Its beauty is the stuff of photo and art galleries. It’s a time of harvest and bounty and preparation for the chill of winter and the barren ground that produces nothing.
For a time.
Human life mimics that cycle. The spring of life is pregnant with promise. Growth and soft rains, fragrant breezes, the labor of planting. The lawn sprouts a green more lime than shamrock, then explodes overnight with freckles of dandelions and wood violets. Each day brings a new blossom, new pollen, signs of youth and vigor. Nothing dies but winter’s memory.
Summer. Life in full bloom. Color and wildlife and sun in a wild tangle of overgrowth. Strawberries that stain our fingers. Blueberries so warm from the bush that they melt on the tongue. Nectarines. Peaches. Dinner pulled from the garden, peas right out of the pod. Backyard cookouts and campfires with no purpose other than family staring into the same screenless flames.
Autumn. Abundant autumn.
And winter. Life retreats underground. And one step outside—into air that freezes in our lungs—reminds us how vulnerable and mortal we are.
The spirit was built for eternity; the body, for this earth only. This brief season.
“The end of caregiving isn’t freedom. It’s grief,” said Margaret Renkl, in a New York Times article called “Caregiving: A Burden So Heavy until It’s Gone”.
No matter how strong we are through the process of our parents’ aging, the day inevitably comes when we realize anew that the dreaded end point is drawing nearer, nearer. Those of solid faith in the mercies of God and the promise of heaven welcome their parents’ release from the pain and distresses, the “surly bonds of earth,” as John Magee Jr. expressed it in his poem “High Flight.”
We sense a shift in our souls, a shift in our caregiving. No longer are we striving to prolong. We’re emotionally plumping the pillows in heaven’s waiting room, preparing for our parents’ arrival. We’re readying our hearts and the rest of the family. And we’re doubling down in our efforts to make the most of our parents’ final days.
For some, those days are a gentle drifting toward the end. For others, it’s an agonizing crawl through a tunnel of painful barbed wire.
We are, as the apostle Paul says, torn between the two worlds, uncertain which is better—to be absent from the body and present with the Lord or for our loved one to remain for a while longer among family and friends here on earth (Philippians 1:23–24).
Our family had stayed so long in that “any day now” mode. Mother had outlived all but one of the residents who had come into the hospice center while she was there. Most left within a day or two, not under their own power. When the hospice staff informed us that all signs pointed to the probability that Mom was within two or three days of the end of her journey, life—even the air itself—took on what we can only describe as a holy hush. Her children gathered from various corners of the state. We took turns sitting vigil with brief breaks for tears or sustenance. It had all come to these last few days, these few hours that remained.
Another friend, Davalynn, said that when she walked into her mother’s room at the care center one day, her mother greeted her with, “I saw Jesus today.”
“I wasn’t surprised by her remark,” Davalynn said. “Lately she had been seeing things no one else saw.
“ ‘Really, Mom? What was He doing?’
“She pointed to the corner by the door. ‘He was right over there. He had dirt on His knees from working in the yard.’
“Not a typically ‘holy’ vision of the Savior, but more of a down-to-earth visitation. And why not? He was the Creator. She didn’t have much more to say about His visit that day, but at least she recognized Him. I took comfort in the fact that she still knew Him, even if she didn’t always know me.”
As our parents advance in age and their winter nears, we can view that time as the end or as a season for the body, a launchpad for the spirit.
And in those hours, as we have in the months or years leading to that moment, we care for the body and nurture the spirit.
How do I describe
The depth
Of this peace?
Who but You, Lord,
Could prepare a heart
For a moment like this
When the veil between earth
And heaven
Is transparently thin?