With the creamy freshness of Ghirardelli peppermint bark lingering on taste buds and decorations neatly packed in their Rubbermaid containers and returned to the attic, I began the descent from the heights of Christmas back to the banality of everyday living.

A month of dust has been Swiffered from surfaces where angel figurines danced and wise men trod. Celebratory meals were added to the treasury of fond memories, as were the festive moments spent with guests. Stale cookies and leftover candy found their way into the trash in anticipation of the renewed commitment to healthy eating. College-age children departed back to school, and my quiet house once again echoes with the unwelcome reminder that youth is fleeting.

The week ahead is already peppered with doctor appointments in between caring for my live-in, eighty-nine-year-old father, helping my mother-in-law make arrangements for her recently deceased husband, keeping up with a coffee business, and whatever else my husband and children throw at me. I sit in front of a mirror, dispirited, because the reflection clamors, “Please take care of me!” But I don’t have the energy, nor do I have the desire. For the moment, I’d like to pull the covers over my head and hibernate like a bear in winter.

My mother warned me there would be hard days, days where I’d have to buck up, put a smile on my face, and plow through the storm. She also reminded me storms were infrequent and, although some could last days or weeks, most only lasted an afternoon or evening. I grew up having the foresight to look beyond the clouds and anticipate what was on the other side of the rainbow. But what happens when that kind of vision gets dulled, when it becomes harder to make out the rainbow because the clouds are so dense?

Caregivers out there can relate: mothers who live on four hours of sleep a night and manage to run a household; those who care for the sick, disabled, or elderly; and those who professionally oversee the health and welfare of others. We generally don’t get time off for the holidays; if anything, we work harder in order to give others time off.

This year has been particularly difficult. Perhaps it’s due to my progression in age and waning patience. For nearly ten years I’ve cared for my father as he progresses through stages of dementia.

Dad came to live with Mike and me shortly after we were married. He was here for the birth of all of our children. Six in eight years was a handful, and his help was greatly appreciated: he taxied them to and from school, did light housecleaning, and ran errands. He even worked part-time and contributed to the food budget. We have always been close, and I enjoyed having him around.

Now he’s become a helpless child, unable to do the simplest of things on his own. And while Mike and I dreamed of the day when the children were old enough to be self-sufficient so we could take a deep breath and enjoy a slower pace, we’ve found this stage in our life in some ways is more exhausting than when the children were little.

At seventeen I made a vow to care for my parents in their old age, come hell or high water. It was then that I attended cosmetology school, where seniors from a local nursing home were bused in once a week to have their hair and nails done. These men and women lit up when they arrived, delighted to be among faces who would extend a smile or the slightest gesture of affection. Many of them said they no longer got visits from family members. Most of them lacked proper hygiene, and it was clear to me they were victims of neglect in many ways. The emotional impact of seeing those people was so strong I wrote on my heart that as long as I was physically capable of caring for my parents, they’d never be put in one of those places.

I’ve spent a decade toileting, showering, dressing, feeding, and caring for the needs of a man who was once my hero; a man who rescued me from multiple calamitous plights, made me believe I could accomplish anything I put my mind to, taught me many life lessons, and was my partner in business, my trusted confidant, my friend.

I’d like to say I take on this job valiantly, but I don’t. These long years have taken their toll. It’s one thing to care for someone’s physical needs—I can handle hard work—but it’s another to endure the emotional stress of dealing with the shell of a man, void of anything he once was, and being called to love him in his most unlovable state. Some days after having to repeat statements over and over again only to be met with a blank stare, or having to get up in the middle of the night two and three times to find continued inquiries to his distress yield no cause—nor a solution, for that matter—would push the boundaries of even the most patient person.

Even with the mantras of “God never gives us more than we can handle,” “I can do all things in Him who strengthens me,” and my ever-present “Jesus, I trust in you,” and with faith in knowing I’m doing the right thing for my father—with a spirit of mortification, offering it up for a person or circumstance, and plunking pebbles into my sacrifice jar—there comes a limit. I reach the point of utter fatigue, lose focus, and am left without an ounce of energy to keep the broad beam of that cross squarely set across my shoulders.

Many of my friends are in the same boat these days. Where we once conversed about being up all night with babies, it’s now shared stories of the strange effects urinary tract infections have on the aged. Their hallucinations at first seemed comical. I used to wonder where in the world my father came up with some of his material. But after a few bizarre wee-hour conversations about hockey players waiting for my husband to buy skates, or having to get up on deck because he’s on duty, it gets tiring.

I don’t remember my mother telling me there will be days like this. She didn’t mention there could be years in which I’d have to care for my father in ways only nurses should be entrusted to do, nor did she prepare me for the mental baggage that went along with it. No, this is one of those things I’ve had to learn on a day-to-day basis.

Many days I fail, as do my friends. I’m here to say it’s okay. It’s okay that we can’t always be patient, loving, and kind. It’s a hard job. When we fall short, we apologize, dust off, and begin again. A friend said to me one day I was having a meltdown, as she passed a box of Kleenex (I’ve been through a few over the years), “It’s good to cry and let it out; just do it as we’re moving forward.” The key words here are “we’re” and “moving forward.”

Let’s start with “we’re.” I’m not alone; I have a companion in my suffering. When Jesus was experiencing his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, he sought the company of his confidants. In his humanity, he wanted his friends to be there for him. “My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me” (Mt 26:38).  Notice, he didn’t ask them to fix his problem. Who could fix Jesus’ problem? He asked them to be with him. Like us, he didn’t want to endure the suffering alone. He wanted those in whom he trusted to give him their time and presence. It’s not always about finding a solution; it’s about the support.

Skip to Calvary. Jesus was capable of anything. He was God. Why then did he need Simon the Cyrenian to help carry the cross the last leg of his mission? Without Simon, he would not have been able to move forward. Jesus shows us that companions are important on the journey, and not every cross is meant to be carried alone.

Jesus also gives us the example of humility. He could have said, “Nope, nope. I don’t need Simon. I got this. It may take me forever to get there, but I can do it myself.” But he didn’t. In humility he allowed someone to help him, showing us we must do the same.

Sometimes I need to be reminded I’m not Superwoman. I like helping others but have a hard time asking them for help. I’m conditioned into thinking, “I’ve got this.” Once in confession, after I shared my struggle with anger, patience, and lack of love, the priest asked if I thought maybe I was letting my pride get in the way of asking for help. Pride is thinking we can overcome something ourselves because we don’t want to impose on anyone (so I was told in no uncertain terms.)  Authentic humility, which is most pleasing to God, is recognizing we need to ask for assistance because we can’t do it alone. We weren’t designed to do it alone; we were created for community.

A few months ago I was with a friend, and the song “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers came on the radio as we were driving in the car. I started belting out the words.

Lean on me, when you’re not strong
And I’ll be your friend
I’ll help you carry on
For it won’t be long
‘Til I’m gonna need
Somebody to lean on

I relate to being the strong one in this song, the one to always offer a sturdy shoulder. But last week when I heard it again in the car alone, reality hit. It was now I who needed somebody to lean on. It was a day when I wanted to get away from it all. Responsibilities were compounded, the lack of sleep was gnawing at me, frustration was high not knowing how to deal with dad, the death of my father-in-law loomed, the pings of all the different demands and situations with Mike and the children — I was done with care-giving. I was done with all my responsibilities, and I was done with being the cheerleader and encourager. I felt like a hypocrite. I’m usually the one who reminds people to be hopeful, to offer their struggles for someone in need, to love with sacrifice, and put self aside, yet I was physically, mentally, and emotionally done! I wanted to give up. It took an hour of mindlessly driving north on Interstate 5 before I reached for the phone. I knew I couldn’t navigate this one by myself.

I have a triad of trusted confidants. and while I try to put on a smile and hide my pain from the world (including Mike and my family so I can be their positive force), these folks generally know when I’m hurting. I didn’t want them to fix my situation because right now there is no fix. I just wanted them to walk with me in my suffering.

When Jesus returned to his disciples, he found them asleep. He said to Peter, “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Mt 26: 40-41). Jesus asked his disciples to be with him and to pray. When I walk with someone who is suffering, I do it on my knees because I know there is merit in loving with sacrifice. Jesus, again, is our example. He shows us the way we help our suffering friends is to put our comfort aside (in his case, he asked the disciples to stay awake and not sleep) and to pray!

Often we respond to those going through difficulties with a consolatory, “I’m praying for you.” But are we really offering up supplications, knowing they truly have the strength to provide real help, or is this response just a nice gesture? Do we offer to pray with them? There is no greater consolation than when we pray with one another because Scripture assures us, “If two of you agree on earth about anything for which they are to pray, it shall be granted to them by my heavenly Father. For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Mt 18:19-20). Do we check in from time to time to make sure they know we have their back, offering an inspiring word or verse to restore their hope? Or do we, like Jesus’ friends, fall asleep, thinking everything is okay?

Sometimes it’s not even about words. Sometimes all that’s needed is to be held—to be little in someone’s arms, knowing they are bigger, stronger, and they care. The image comes to mind of Simon securing Jesus’ arm around his shoulder so that Simon could move in close and steady him. There is much to be said for the healing properties of human touch. I’m blessed that my kids, even the big ones, still feel they can walk up to me and say, “I need a big hug right now.” No words or explanations are required; just the comforting silence that comes from someone who cares.  I am also fortunate to have a husband who doesn’t mind random requests and will stop whatever he’s doing to allow me to stand in his arms for as long as I need.

To know someone shares the weight of your cross gives strength to persevere. When an exhausted track runner is about to give out short of the finish line, and his teammates come alongside, cheering and pushing for the extra mile, it encourages the tired runner to keep going. This is what it’s all about. Sometimes we are the exhausted runner, and sometimes we are the cheering teammate; we are called to be both.

I’m thankful pride didn’t get in the way of making that call from the car. Not much has changed from last week to this in my responsibilities, but at least I’m able to smile and know I’m not in it alone. To all of you who are in a tough spot, I say we can do this! You aren’t alone either.

“If there is a load you have to bear
That you can’t carry
I’m right up the road
I’ll share your load

If you just call me (call me)”

Yes, you can call me.