A Gift Within Us to Give

You don’t know what you don’t know.

But, it’s easier to recognize another’s deficit when you have abundance in that same area. Every person’s idea of normal is different, but I can sympathize by visualising a loss in my own life. That’s my very woolly, melancholic way of explaining the family microculture I was raised in, which fundamentally shaped my worldview and character; the choices that direct my life and are instinctual often seem startling to others, despite shared cultural and moral norms.

For context, I have nine siblings, five of whom are married and have children. I’m the joyful aunt to seventeen nieces and nephews—so far. Every job I’ve ever had has involved children in some form. I’ve been a babysitter, nanny, tutor, and an elementary school librarian. I love children. So is it ironic that, for the past five years, my life has revolved around being a primary caregiver to my elderly grandmother? Don’t mistake me; I love her dearly, and there is much food for thought in examining the similarities between the beginnings and endings of life. Examined at the surface level, however, a newborn baby and an old woman don’t present the same picture.

My father’s mother moved into my parents’ home in May 2020. At 100 years old, with bad knees and dementia, she had been living in a locked memory unit at a care home. Because of COVID restrictions, she was, for the first time in her busy, social life, completely isolated from family and friends. Normally, she would have at least one visit a day from her children and grandchildren. We fed her, walked with her, took her on excursions, and spent time together—Grandma was the expert at loving through gestures. She loved everyone with her whole heart. Our actions simply extended to her what she had been the first to extend to us—the beginning of a family microculture of servitude and love. 

Of the residents, my grandma was one of the lucky ones. It was a dismal, depressing place. It smelled of pee, the residents wandered listlessly like zombies, and often you could hear crying and mumbling—sometimes even shouting. If we didn’t come to feed her or make sure she drank water, she wouldn’t eat or drink much that day. There was minimal supervision because the home was understaffed. And this was one of the better care homes, which my aunt had chosen after diligent research. 

During COVID, all visits stopped, and Grandma gave up on life, feeling abandoned by her family. What was the point? One day, she had a bad fall and ended up permanently bedridden, refusing to eat or drink. Administrators called her children and informed them that she was dying and asked what they wanted to do. It took just one visit for my parents to insist that she be moved in with them. She would not die alone. At my parents’ home, Grandma came back to life. It’s been five years now, and she has spent all her time living at the heart of our rambunctious, joyful, chaotic family. She was able to meet and kiss over a dozen great-grandchildren who were born. When they visit, they run to give her hugs and kisses, have chats, or share a meal with her. They love her, and she loves them.  

My aunt, mom, sister, and I are Grandma’s primary caregivers. We’ve spent the past five years on “Grandma duty”, sharing a schedule of feeding, cleaning, bathing, dressing, and supervising, which is supplemented by three daily visitors from subsidised home care who help us. It is hard—sometimes devastatingly so. She isn’t the grandma of my youth, the one who took me and my sisters on weekly mall adventures well into her eighties and rejoiced in our silly, hysterical antics. No, this grandma doesn’t know my name, and she doesn’t always trust me or want me to touch her. She has tried to hit me, bite me, and has called me terrible names because she is usually lost in her own mind and afraid. 

And yet, I love her constantly despite the emotional ups and downs. The best way I know how to love her is by following how she loved me—to give all of myself, to be patient, to be present, to take my time, and to touch her softly because she is physically fragile, and her skin bruises deep burgundy and black if you’re not careful. Five years ago, I made a verbal commitment that I would care for her until her death. I didn’t know she would live another five years. I don’t regret it, and when I reflect on who I was and how this has shaped me, I am so grateful to a good and loving God who allows hardship and suffering because He makes all things good.  Jeremiah 29:11 says: “For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Taking care of Grandma has given me more—in grace and growth—than anything I could ever give to her.  

Recently, we thought Grandma was going to die. For one endless, breathless night, we thought it was imminent. My family and I sat for hours by her bedside as she lay gasping for breath. Periodically, she would stop breathing and we would all stop too, waiting. In the dark stillness of her room, kneeling on the hardwood floor, praying while holding the hand of a dying woman, I realized that her death would break my heart. This was a revelation to me because I had felt guilty for thinking that her death might be somewhat of a relief—a guilt stemming from a fear that the relief would come from shedding the burden of her care, rather than from the cessation of her suffering. Through those brutal hours on my knees beside her bed, God worked deep into my heart subconsciously. Much of the time, I struggled to feel anything other than burdened or dutiful while caring for Grandma, but the lessons of my childhood had taught me to offer those feelings up to Him. There is no greater gift than service to others and giving all of oneself. And most importantly, I’ve learned not to rely on the emotion to perform the action. Unbeknownst to me, the actions were changing my heart and forming a new depth of incomprehensible love. The choices I made every day to put my grandma before myself changed my character. I became more selfless.

You don’t know what you don’t know.

Five years ago, I didn’t know much. I was selfish, lost, and lonely; I was aloof, distant, and unkind. But the lessons I grew up with shaped me just enough to know that relationships are the most important priorities in life. Loving others is what makes life beautiful. Love is a service of generosity and selflessness. Back then, I knew this wasn’t the norm in other families or the culture at large. Our society kills the youngest and oldest members out of convenience—the thinnest and most selfish excuse. But for the elderly, there is an even darker path. Everyone dies, but through love, patience, and generosity, a peaceful death is a gift within us to give. Taking care of Grandma means giving her the gift of a good death, so it breaks my heart that the norm is deliberately ignorant in this regard. Our culture shuns the weak and destroys the vulnerable.

Taking care of someone who is dying is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It has beaten me down and has left me emotionally and physically fragile. The exhaustion I felt the week of Grandma’s near death was so profound and draining that I was afraid to sit down for fear I wouldn't be able to get back up. Yet, I would change nothing. The incandescent gratitude I feel for these past five years is indescribable. It is the tangible experience of God’s mercy and loving grace.

If you know, you know. 

A culture of people who do not know God’s love cannot give love. I can see that our society lacks abundant love, but because I follow God, I’m blessed with it. How can you imagine the sun if all you’ve ever known is darkness? Of course, you would fear it, or hate it when described, or even refuse to see it for the first time. The love of Christ crucified is similarly terrifying.  

Lord Jesus, change our hearts so that we might love as You love, dying to ourselves and protecting and serving the weakest and most vulnerable in our midst.