Our version of the Christmas star.
On Christmas morning, I took Mom to church. It was just the third time I’d taken Mom to services since she moved here a year-and-a-half ago. I feel bad about that because her spiritual beliefs mean a lot to her, and she’s always been a regular church-goer. That is, until Dad moved out and she found it hard to traverse the icy roads in winter to get to the church.
But now she is here, in sunny New Mexico, where it should be easy to reach the building and attend as she desires – except that she relies on me for transportation to new places, and the church qualifies as just that. It’s located outside her normal driving territory.
Mom’s still pretty self-sufficient in most ways. She drives. She buys her own groceries. She has no trouble taking herself off to Barnes & Noble for a cup of coffee and good book-browsing session.
And yet I also play a key role in her care. I remind her when the rent check’s due. I drive her to doctor appointments that, to her, are in the far-flung hinterlands. I provide social support. I clip her finger- and toenails. I fly with her to see relatives, wrangling the baggage of two people and helping her navigate the overwhelming setting that is the security checkpoint.
In other words, I provide Mom with a substantial amount of care in various areas. So why have I been neglecting her spiritual care?
There’s no easy answer.
Personally, I haven’t regularly attended church since I was a teenager. As I grew older, studied the liberal arts and sciences in college, and generally became more worldly, I began to question the notion of God. I think that’s pretty normal. I have a hard time accepting things – anything – on mere faith. As a nurse, I’m an evidence-type person: show me the studies, give me the facts. And, of course, that’s impossible to do when speaking of God.
And yet, a part of me misses the church. Memories of attending services loom large in my childhood psyche. I vividly remember standing next to my dad, singing hymns. Sometimes, on well-known songs, he’d sing the tenor line while I sang the soprano part. During those moments, I felt pure joy, my heart filled with hope and love. At one time, I even considered becoming a minister. But I realized that was impossible if I didn’t utterly, fully believe; and by then, I didn’t.
Going to church now, I actually get choked up on occasion. I can’t sing well anymore, not like when I was a girl, and of course Dad is gone. But when I raise my voice as best I can on those beloved hymns – A Mighty Fortress is Our God; Dear Christians, One and All, Rejoice; Beautiful Savior – sometimes my throat constricts, and sorrow wells up within me. I miss those days of youthful believing, of sharing the sacraments with my parents, of feeling utterly certain we would, one day, all be reunited in heaven.
That certainty has long since fled, and attending church has become bittersweet.
And maybe that explains why I’ve neglected Mom’s spiritual care: because it’s painful for me. But, you know, I feel that’s no excuse. As a caregiver, I feel it’s my duty to meet as many of Mom’s care needs as possible, and for her, regularly attending church services represents a vital contribution to her well-being.
Today, I marked Easter on my calendar. We absolutely cannot miss church on Easter, the holiest day of our church year. And then I backed up one month on my calendar to another Sunday and wrote simply: “Church.” And I backed up another four weeks and did the same thing. My resolution for the new year is to make a better effort to meet Mom’s spiritual needs. And you know what? Maybe it will be beneficial for me, too.
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