Editor’s Note: I thought I would just jump back right into posting devo’s! I have closed submissions for the time being – and you’ll be getting a fresh devotional to read every Monday morning for this fall!
This is a guest submission by Heather Ream. This is somewhat of a follow-up to Heather’s previous post about her mom here. Thank you for sharing, Heather!
My mom has been living in a nursing home now for a little over a year. Most of the time, she’s stable. I’m blessed to be able to write that. Praise you, Lord. Most of the time, she’s stable.
Sometimes, she has a short series of days that culminate with a episode of psychosis. First, she’ll refuse all medication. The staff cannot force her to take her pills, and only some of her medicine is available in an injectible form. Next, she might suffer with insomnia that night and may or may not sleep. By the next morning, she will refuse food or a change of clothes. She will adamantly proclaim that she is dying along with a list of other delusional thoughts.
Eventually, when the staff has done all they can, the doctor will be called and Mom will be given an injection of a strong, calming drug. It’s only then that she will be able to sleep, and the cycle will be broken…this time.
I usually receive a phone call from a nurse early on the second day informing me of what’s happened. Each one of them is compassionate, and they carefully explain to me everything they did to try to help or cajole my mother. Often, they are embarrassed and frustrated they couldn’t do more. However, this is our reality. My mom has a serious mental illness compounded by dementia.
After Mom’s had a tough run of days, my next visit usually consists of straightening her room and putting everything back in order. Her room is cleaned regularly, but it is impossible to keep up with the chaos when Mom’s having a crisis.
Last week, after her most recent difficult day, my husband and I brought her a burger and fries to enjoy while I started the cleanup. Socks and clothes were strewn around her bed and underneath it. Her shoes lay in a jumbled mess. A patriotic sign had fallen off the wall and landed in the corner.
But the medicine had finally done its job. She finished her meal without complaint and let me change her into pajamas. The nurse and I helped her into bed, and she fell asleep almost immediately. After I tidied her room, I wet a washcloth with warm water and wiped the sleepies out of her eyes – another task she had refused the nurses.
Another storm, another mess that needed to be cleaned up. The tears came as I thought of us, our roles reversed. How many times had my mother wiped my face or hands as I slept soundly, after a meal? How many mismatched socks did she gather from my bedroom floor, careful not to wake me during her early morning chore time before work?
Am I really helping her, Lord? Is this all that’s left? My heart is breaking, I prayed. I thought of our Jesus, chiding the disciples in the boat as the storm raged around them.
“Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” he asked. (Mark 4:40, NIV)
My heart swelled as I remembered all the Lord had done for my family the past year. True, this was a hard day. But tomorrow would be easier.
As I stroked my mother’s hair back into place with my hand, I contemplated the countless Godly mothers all over the world, all throughout history. They were the dear ones who had cleaned up innumerable storms the same way my mother had done for her children. I thought of us, the daughters, once their students and now the experts. What a beautiful gift, to be numbered among those multitudes.
Storms will always come, my friends, but have faith! Sometimes, what seems like a deluge is merely a torrential downpour of love, from our Heavenly parent.