These days I’m discovering—and embracing—a sometimes painful joy
By Mark A. Taylor
Dean Collins several weeks ago graciously mentioned my new blog: Unchosen Journey: A Caregiver’s Walk with Alzheimer’s. Below is an adaptation of my post there April 20.
“How are you doing?”
In response to the often-asked question, a new answer popped out of my mouth one day. “What isn’t sad or stressful is just a slog,” I told my friend.
Immediately he countered, “But much of life is a slog for anyone,” he said. “I hear these kids [my friend is 80-something] say they don’t like their job. But who has a job they like every moment?”
And where is the caregiver who likes most of his or her moments at this job they never wanted?
Photo by Tim Mossholder at Unsplash
And yet . . . and yet, joy can be found if we look for it. This is as true for the accounting clerk forgotten in some corner cubicle as it is for the caregiver rising each morning to the same, sad routine.
Readers of my blog are helping me see this.
Choosing cheer
In response to one post, Valerie Reed wrote, “Cheerfulness is a choice.” (Valerie’s “Shared Story” about her life with her paralyzed husband has received the most views of anything posted at Unchosen Journey.)
Another friend, whose wife has been recovering for years in a nursing home after a devastating stroke, added, “I tell my wife every night, ‘Well, we’ve had a good day, haven’t we?’ and we remember at least one good moment, even though there may have been some not so stellar.”
One reader, caring for her Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother until she died last year, didn’t use the word joy, but “joy” describes what she discovered:
“I tried to spend a few minutes each day either listening to a favorite song or trying to empty my mind of the flurry of activities involved in caregiving. Just to stop for those few minutes was sometimes a lifesaver, or temper saver. Sometimes I’d stop and say silently, ‘God, I can’t handle all of this right now. Please help me.’ Then I was silent, in an effort to get out of God’s way. It really helped.”
Scheduling joy
A long-distance friend who is not a caregiver but whose work was sometimes a slog for her, sent an email to encourage me.
“Quite a while back, I wrote out a list and kept it in front of me: ‘What Brings Me Joy.’ I had focused too long on what wasn't working, mainly in my job. I started checking in with my list once a month, and then scheduling the ‘joy bringers.’ Listening to music I love, calling a friend, taking a walk, going to a big nursery in town—good to walk through there in the winter and hope for spring.”
The key takeaway: scheduling the joy bringers. She had learned what Valerie suggested, cheerfulness can be chosen.
Photo by Iulia Mihailov at Unsplash
A fearful thing
This week a preacher in Georgia, also a reader of this blog, posted pictures from his wife’s memorial service, conducted the day before Easter. The program for the funeral included a poem you may have discovered, “’Tis a Fearful Thing,” which speaks of “A fearful thing . . . to love, . . And oh, to lose.” Considering this love lost to death, the poet says, “To remember this brings painful joy,” a surprising combination of words. We want to associate “joy” with “happiness,” but anyone coping with loss longs for something deeper.
Many centuries ago, God’s servant Nehemiah encouraged the pursuit of that depth as he assured his people, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” It sounds like just another platitude, until you experience it.
But we have a tendency to mouth the words without having had the experience. For me, it’s as much an aspiration as an accomplishment. Because often, this joy is a painful joy.
Strong—and faltering—belief
Yes, I’ll agree that God wants the best for me, that these disappointments will all make sense someday, to someone if not to me, that “God doesn’t waste anything,” and all the other positive-thinking chestnuts we could think of.
I do believe, but like the anguished father pleading with Jesus to heal his son, my repeated prayer is “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
Evelyn (in yellow) posed with friends after a wonderful Easter service at our church.
I received a measure of help Easter Sunday, encouraged by the larger crowd at our church’s service, and buoyed by the jubilant praise of the worship we were experiencing. The hour closed with a song we had used earlier in the service, and the praise band filled the room with words I want to believe.
I looked sideways and caught a glimpse of my wife, standing beside me, her head bobbing slightly with her Parkinson’s tremor, singing every word along with the congregation: “Lord, there’s nothing better than you!”
The tears welled up in my eyes. Tears of sadness, and gratitude, and hope—and joy.