With Passion and Purpose

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.

Yep. This week I’ve been walking around in a listless daze; escaping pain with feel-good substances, slipping into a state of lazy self-absorption and ferociously attacking the kitchen cabinets in eating frenzies. At times my eyes have been noticeably blood-shot and I’ve been confronted for dreamily staring out the window, watching grass grow.

With the 40-day discipline of the desert behind me and the 50 days of Easter celebration underway, I realize I’m right back where I was on Fat Tuesday: the mentality it’s all about wanting to feel good. After all, isn’t that what celebrating is about?

Somehow my gung-ho resolution “This year I will become an amazing lover” has, in a weekend, turned into, “Eh, I’m feeling [insert your favorite excuse – tired, stressed, lonely, rejected, etc.], and I deserve [insert you favorite self-reward].”

I began my Lenten journey putting forth a resolute effort to work on reversing my selfish nature and detach from anything that controls me. Inspired by a little tool my children made years ago as they all prepared for their First Holy Communion, I formed a crown of braided salt dough, inserted toothpick *thorns* and placed it as a centerpiece on our kitchen table. The thorns were meant to be removed when someone carried out an act of love.

It worked great for those days in the desert; especially in the food department. Every time I wanted to eat when I wasn’t hungry, or wanted seconds on something yummy, or turned to food to fix an emotional blip, that crown silently spoke, “Robin, so-and-so is in a lot of pain. Can’t you give up that morsel for the grace to be given to them?”  Seeing I thrive when helping others, this reminder was effective.

I asked God to use weight loss as a way to show me just how much I was growing in love – it’s that John 3:30 concept, “He must increase; I must decrease.” I patted myself on the back after discovering the day before Easter I had lost 10 pounds. Woo Hoo! It’s a tangible way to see that denying myself and loving others had paid off. It was difficult journey; there were many times I didn’t want to love, but did so begrudgingly because of that simple crown. I was on a roll – that is, until the crown was removed and the mood turned to celebrating.

I received a blow last weekend that threw me for a loop. My immediate response was to eat. Food is my faithful friend – always offering a metaphorical hug, “Come here, Robin. I’ll make you feel better. It will be okay”.  I didn’t care about loving. My focus was on me and I spiraled downhill, fast. All I wanted to do was feel good and went back to my usual material means of getting there – which, intellectually, I know won’t do the job, but out of desperation and convenience, it’s what I did – it’s what we all do.

First came the Easter candy and sweets. I didn’t care – heck I’m celebrating! Then came the salty-crunchy stuff, (because texture relieves stress). All week I grazed uncontrollably, at times wondering where I got the composure to be so temperate for those 40 days. There was also the wine, which I didn’t have while in the desert but now justified with, “It’s 50 days of Easter, baby!”

Scars from my past manifest in different ways. God has been generous in healing me of many things, though on a rare occasion someone will say or do something to tear open an old wound. The smarting comes back as if I’m experiencing the cut for the first time, and I shrink into a state of self-preservation. Instead of thinking of others, my focus turns to me.

I go through the stages: Anger, resentment, hurt, self-doubt, self-loathing and end up blaming my present condition on experiences from my past which have rendered me broken, and conclude I’ll be like this forever. I’m thankful for close friends who won’t allow me to dance at my pity party for very long. They let me wallow in a few tunes then reign in the reality; usually reminding me: 1) of how much God loves me, and that as long as my heart is right with Him, it doesn’t matter what other people think, and 2) to trust that He will bring something positive out of the situation, even if it’s yucky.

None of us escape life without something leaving a painful, indelible mark. These events, like little stones, create the fortress around our hearts. Little children love unconditionally because they haven’t yet experienced the kind of hurt that puts up barriers to love.

Our painful events also served as sign posts in the road; directing our travel one way or another. I’ve often said, “If that didn’t happen to me when I was young, I probably wouldn’t have had to deal with this all my life.”

God uses all our experiences for a reason. We can either look at them as excuses to explain why we are so broken and justify our position so we don’t have to change; which is pride. Or we can ask Him to heal us from our brokenness and show us how our unfortunate experiences can help others.

Because of some painful early experiences, I’ve made a few imprudent choices; but I believe everything we go through – good or bad – has a purpose. While my vices are a struggle at times, without them I would not have the compassion for others who struggle in similar ways. They’ve also been opportunities God used to grab my attention and showed how much He loves me through His infinite Mercy.

In my mid 20’s, I reached the point of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. (I can’t believe it either.) My, now, husband – who didn’t smoke – made a casual comment at the onset of our dating relationship that he could never marry a smoker. With great intent I tried for months to quit, knowing it would be best for me – but my flesh was weak. After many unsuccessful attempts going at it alone, I got to the point where I was convinced Mike would either have to love me as a smoker, or I’d have to give him up because I was incapable of change.

At the time I was a new re-vert to the Church and on the path of exploration and learning; faith had not yet developed. Since my new friends encouraged me to “give my vice to God”, I approached Lent that year in desperation. Fat Tuesday I sat on my balcony, chain-smoking five cigarettes in a row, and begged to have this vice taken away, “Lord, you said, ‘For human beings this is impossible, but for God all things are possible.’ (Mt 19:26). As much as I enjoy smoking, I no longer want it getting in the way of what you have planned for me. If Mike is what you have planned and I need to stop smoking, then you will have to do it because I am too weak.”

The following morning I awoke with a determination not to smoke on Ash Wednesday. I was going to do this day by day. It was hard, but I held out. Thursday came and went, then Friday, and even Saturday. I had never been able to go this long! The struggle was difficult enough to require some effort, but there also seemed to be a force helping me along so I could succeed.

Twenty-five years later, I have yet to put another cigarette to my lips. I learned through that experience, as well as being able to conquer other addictions, the key is to not rely on oneself, but to let go of the pride. When we realize we can’t do it ourselves, and need the help of God, He will grant it and we will succeed.

The crown on my table was a constant reminder of the sacrifices Christ made out of love, and it motivated me. There was gratification in being able to pull a toothpick knowing I conquered a little bit of my prideful self. But there was also a great sense of joy attached to thinking my sacrifice may have made a positive effect on someone else. Ah, the joy! It’s for what we all pine. The irony is that when we sacrifice and place our focus on others, we will find that – even though at first it’s difficult – the more we do it, the more joy we get out of it, and the happier we become.

Since this tool was gone and I’ve given myself the green light to celebrate, I’ve somehow turned the gaze back onto myself, and yes, it does have a stoning effect. We become numb to the world around us when our eyes only seek those things which make us feel good.

Years ago I bought two vases and a bag of marbles for a friend. He was fighting a fierce addiction and was getting discouraged because he kept failing to overcome this thing that had a hold on him. He was about to accept this was who he was and was willing to settle for the fact he wasn’t going to change. As God wouldn’t let me settle, I wasn’t going to afford my friend the option of a cop-out. I placed the two vessels in his house where he could see them. I told him that each time he felt weak he was to beg for God’s help then think of a person who was suffering. Every time he resisted the temptation and offered up that struggle to help the other person, he could move a marble from one jar to the other. (Yes, God really does use our acts of love to bless other people!)

In the beginning he laughed. (Sacrifice is a hard concept to grasp.) Day after day, he walked by those stupid marbles – surely mocking me under his breath. One day he tried it; the little victory felt good. The battle was on. Sometimes he would make the choice to resist and plunk a pesky orb into the empty vase, other times he’d cave to temptation. Sooner or later he started feeling the power of little successes. The empty Love Jar filled.

We can be rid of anything that hinders us from being fully alive! We only need to give up thinking we can do it alone, ask God for his strength to help move metamorphic walls of pride and selfishness with acts of love, and allow Him to fortify us with His grace; rejuvenating the crimson sanguinity of our hearts, which pumps life into our being. My friend is no longer hemmed in by the walls of his addiction. Love won and vibrant life was restored.

I gained back four pounds in the last two weeks. I knew it was coming. It’s the result of being stoned: My heart was cold, I gathered pebbles to build a tiny wall, held on to pain, and sought my own ways to feel good. I didn’t choose to love and I didn’t ask God for help. The result: I ended up feeling worse, not better.

I decided to buy two vessels and a bag of stones for myself. They’ve been crafted into a centerpiece for my dining room table to serve as a constant reminder that we celebrate these 50 days of Easter not for self, but for Love – the sacrificial kind Christ has for us, and the kind we are called to have for one another.

This morning I began again to remove the stones from around my heart. It didn’t take long to regain the peace. I’m much happier this weekend than I was last!

Photo credits: Chris Saunders