The Choices We Make

Some decisions are harder to make than others. And usually the most difficult decisions must be made in the most stressful circumstances. No wonder we don’t always choose the best solutions to the agonizing challenges of Alzheimer’s.

Drawing a line in the sand in the beginning of the caregiving journey isn’t a good idea. It leads us to believe we have no options. The truth is, we always have options. 

My father was losing his sight due to macular degeneration, but he refused to let “strangers” come into their home to help him care for my mother. He also vowed never to put her in a care facility.

lonely beachHe justified the first decision by saying “I don’t want someone else in this house. I’d feel invaded.” In other words, that choice was motivated by his personal preference for privacy.

The second choice he justified on the basis of his experience with his own mother many years earlier. When my grandmother was bedridden as a result of a stroke, one or another of my father’s siblings arranged for her to live in what was then called “a nursing home.” My father visited her one time, with me and my sister. We wandered the halls and finally found her room by the sound of her crying “Help me help me help me.” We entered to see Grandmother lying naked on top of the bedclothes. Dad’s first reaction was a shout at me and my sister: “Get out!” As we scuttled out the door, we heard him cursing at all the nurses and doctors who were nowhere close enough to hear him.  Years later, I wasn’t surprised to hear his promise to keep Mom out of a care facility. She was better off at home with him, he said, just the two of them.

storm beachSo I stepped in to help care for Mom.  Someone had to.  Untrained, inexperienced, and, yes, frightened of what the future might look like, I spent most of my days at their home, returning to my family after dinner. As grueling as the schedule was, as difficult as the challenges became, Dad and I managed. But only with the help of God. He alone could have helped me come up with the practical ideas I came to call miracles. I tried out first one and then another and then another until the problem of the day—or the hour—was addressed. With His help, we not only survived, but Mom was able to enjoy pleasures we thought were long past.picnic beachStill…I should have pushed Dad harder to get professional help. A trained aide would have added greatly to Mom’s safety, especially with bathing and other issues of hygiene. I was surprised to see that, when Mom did have to be hospitalized for a broken hip, she gave the nurses much more cooperation than Dad and I had enjoyed.  Later, because she couldn’t do the rehab necessary to walk again, the doctors said she must go to a care facility after all. We feared she’d fight the caregivers there, engage in the long term shouting matches we had experienced at home, or refuse to eat, drink, take her medications.  None of that happened. Mom was calmer and seemed much more comfortable at Golden Acres than she had at home. Dad visited every day. He made lots of new friends among the “strangers” at the home, and was free to enjoy more activities both at home and away than he had in years.

oler men at beachSo Dad’s decision to reject outside help worked out ok. But in hindsight, I see that everyone—Mom, Dad, and I—would have been better off with the additional expertise of a professional. No less important, Dad and I would have benefitted greatly from some time away from caregiving.  Three or four hours a week in the beginning, three or so days a week as the disease progressed—having that kind of help would have allowed all of us to enjoy more of Mom’s last years.

In addition, I see that, because the doctor overruled Dad’s decision to keep Mom out of a care facility, her last weeks were comfortable for both of them. Someone else, not Dad or I, talked her into eating and taking her medications.  Someone else took care of her hygiene.  Which left Dad with the opportunity to just spend time with her. He could see for himself she was not upset to be away from him. He could see her needs were met. And he could see in her eyes that, even in a place strange to her, she still knew him.

beach lineMy point is that lines drawn in the sand at the beginning of a caregiving journey may be erased. Tides such as additional information, progression of the disease, or just clearer thinking can wash away the logic or emotions of early decisions. What’s important to remember is that we always have options. If we can’t see them, someone less involved often can.  

We have to believe. Believing we have choices helps us find them.

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Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, Where there is no standing; I have come into deep waters….

Hear me, O Lord, for Your lovingkindness is good;
Turn to me according to the multitude of Your tender mercies.   (Ps. 69:1-2,16  NKJV)

Father, please give us wisdom to care for our loved ones. When we struggle to help them, let us seek Your guidance. Remind us that You are always with us, and Your desire is to give us and our loved ones abundant life. Thank You, Lord.

 

Just the Facts, Please

The only way to look at Alzheimer’s Disease is straight on. Unblinking.

Face reality.

Not easy. Especially in the beginning, the disease lures us into false visions. The good days look just fine. “Normal.”  Difficult times? It’s easy to tell ourselves they’re caused by a misunderstanding of some kind, or the aches and pains of getting older.

realityBut the illusions last only so long—would that we could predict exactly how long!—before we can no longer ignore the reality of decline. At that point, we begin to feel as though we’re flying by the seat of our pants. Barely managing to keep the lifeboat afloat. Walking a tightrope in the dark…without a net. We navigate by instinct, bail as fast as we can, and slide ourselves across the chasm with a bravado born of blindness—the darkness hiding not only what lies below but also what looms ahead.

We hunger for information. Information is power; power gives us some level of control; and we long to gain control. But Alzheimer’s doesn’t come with a navigation system or weather forecasting or safety nets. There is no uniform set of symptoms, no universal timeline, no advance notice of sudden changes. Pinning down the facts, just the facts—the who, what, when, where, and why—of Alzheimer’s is a seemingly impossible task.

any questions First we look to science: What signs should we look for? Any treatments on the horizon? Any cures?

But eventually—and always too quickly—we’re just searching for ways to get through each day. We want to know more about how to help our loved ones feel safe, stay connected, and live at their best—today. Here, definitive answers are even harder to come by, because the challenges of living with Alzheimer’s are unique to each personas unique as his or her personality and experiences.

factIs there no answer then to the question of when to take away the car keys? No answer to what does sundowning look like or how to handle wandering? Well, if we look at Alzheimer’s and caregiving factually, no, there is no one answer to those questions.

Realistically speaking, though,  we know there ARE answers. There are helps. Some we’ve seen. Some we’ve read about. THE answer for everyone? No. But options, YES! Looking realistically means letting go of the idea that there’s only one right answer to each question. Looking realistically means we can look at the WHOs instead of the WHO; the WHATs instead of the WHAT; the WHENs and WHEREs and WHYs instead of expecting a single, uniquely correct, factual response to our questions.

And looking realistically means that even though none of us has all the facts, we can share the information we do have.Hands raisedOur next five posts on this blog will do just that. We’ll explore each of those five issues: the WHOs, WHATs, WHENs, WHEREs, and WHYs of Alzheimer’s. We’ll be looking at each of the topics subjectively, dealing not with statistics but with common experiences. So we can learn and share.

optionsMany questions and many answers make for many options.

Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s is a generous and loving but demanding and strenuous challenge. That’s a fact. But it’s also a fact that we need not face that challenge alone.

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7 (NKJV)

Lord, You are the source of our hope and our help. Please remind us that we belong to an army of caregivers, each of us fighting the same battle, all of us searching for the same answers. Help us help others as You help us all.

Beached — The Unpredictable Days

Trying to plan a day with an Alzheimer’s patient is a little like building a sandcastle: you know the look you’re going for, but the castle rarely comes out as you planned.

Lots of conditions influence the outcome: where you begin, whether you’re working alone, your allotment of patience on this day, and, of course, the sand itself. Is today a day the sand wants to cooperate with your plans for it?

Okay—that last one kind of breaks down the comparison, but I promise you: some days on the beach are sandcastle days for me; some are not. I can’t say for sure what makes the difference, but I usually blame it on the sand.

empty sand pail

Trying to map out in detail a day with my mom is an exercise I learned to avoid whenever possible. Alzheimer’s has a way of shutting down plans, even well-made, long-held plans. I found it worked better for all of us—Mom, Dad, me—if we let each day take its own course. What did that look like?

Sometimes Mom awoke early, sometimes she slept till lunchtime. When she did get out of bed, some days she’d cooperate with the necessities of hygiene, some days not. This particular variable served as a barometer of sorts: if Mom let us help her get clean and dry, the day always seemed to go more smoothly; if she insisted on sitting in wet clothes and eating with unwashed hands, her mood tended to go downhill. Ours did, too.
But we didn’t give up on downhill days. We knew we could turn them around; we had a strategy that worked almost every time. We’ve discussed it in a previous post, but here it is in a nutshell.

If Mom refused a cup of tea, help with the bathroom, a piece of toast, her favorite shirt—we learned to simply leave her alone. Sitting on “her” couch in the den, she could see and hear me and Dad at the breakfast table, and of course we could see and hear her. Dad and I would talk quietly to each other, while Mom stared at the wall opposite the couch, shuffling her feet, sometimes talking to the dog. After twenty minutes or so, either Dad or I would try again to help Mom start her day. If she refused, we’d wait a while and offer yet again. The most important part of our strategy was that, each time, we spoke to her in a cheerful voice and made our offer as if it were the very first time.

Sooner or later, Mom’s answer changed. Did her mood change? Her mind change? Did she feel better? We never figured it out. We knew only that her answer changed. And the day started moving again. Thank the Lord.

sand fortressAs the hours passed, some of the activities we hoped would take place that day came to fruition. Others didn’t. Maybe Mom let me give her a bath. Maybe we went to the store. Maybe we got Mom outside for a while. Maybe it was a good day for conversation. Or maybe not. It was usually fine either way.

As far as we possibly could, we left the days open. There were almost no must’s, no time constraints, no deadlines. No firm plans. We put the day together as we went along.

Unless Mom had a doctor’s appointment.

Early on, doctor days were panic days. What if Mom refused to bathe? What if she insisted on wearing the same clothes she wore the day before? What if we were late? Worst of all, what if she simply wouldn’t go?

“I’m staying right here,” she said sometimes. And she’d stomp one foot on the floor for emphasis.

wrecked castleEven on those days, we managed to get Mom to the doctor’s office. But it seemed to get more difficult and nerve-racking every time.

Until I wised up. After months of trying to plan everything perfectly—hygiene, clothes, timing—I realized my plans seldom worked perfectly. Yet…Mom always made it to the doctor. Wasn’t that success?

We accomplished the most important thing: the doctor saw Mom.

That realization led to changes on doctor-days. First, I learned to make the appointments later in the day; that gave us more time to work through—or wait through—the issues du jour. And I let go of my pride. Yes, I helped Mom stay as clean as possible, but if she wouldn’t bathe before her appointment, so be it. If her clothes were less than perfect, okay. When her appearance was less than presentable, I told myself, the doctor was actually getting a more accurate picture of her daily condition.

The only “necessity” was to get Mom there, where the doctor could see and take care of her.

mound castleDialing down my anxiety on doctor-days seemed to reduce Mom’s also. I wasn’t rushing her. Instead of insisting she bathe, I just encouraged it, and was glad when I was successful.; I laid her clothes out on the bed and helped her choose what to wear. If yesterday’s outfit was presentable, it was included among the choices.

The point is that once I relaxed—understanding that, at worst, we might have to reschedule an appointment—things grew more peaceful. Not just on doctor-days but every day. I could turn a blind eye to Mom pouring orange juice on her potato chips. I could clean upholstery with the strong stuff, the disinfecting stuff. We could buy more green knit pants to replace her old favorites that suddenly disappeared. (We never found them, but after about five washings, Mom accepted the new ones.)

In other words, all any of us had to handle was the present, today. And as far as we possibly could, we avoided turning anything into a crisis.

I’m happy to say that, every now and then, we ended up with a perfect castle of a day. We usually couldn’t determine quite how it turned out so lovely, but we were smart enough to enjoy it, to live in it while we could before the sea erased it.

washing away
Besides, even without a plan, we’d have a chance to start another castle tomorrow. A chance to be surprised by how the sandy building would look at the end of the day. A castle? A fortress? A lopsided hut? Only the Lord knew. We learned the outcome was never in our control to begin with; it had always been in His hands. He worked each day out with a love for Mom that far surpassed our own.

Now may the God of peace…equip you with everything good for doing his will, and may he work in us what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ…. (Hebrews 13:20,21 NIV)

Sweet Jesus, help us to rely on You, to relax in You. Make us always aware of Your hands working with ours to care for those we love. Remind us to turn to You for the guidance and assistance You long to give us.

The Hardest Things…Lead to the Biggest Miracles

Amid all the challenges presented by Alzheimer’s, some things stand out as particularly difficult. They usually demonstrate that something else has been lost or some new indignity has moved onto the scene, meaning that we caregivers must help our loved ones live without the one and in spite of the other.

But if we can do that—if we can help our loved ones live, really live, even through the hardest things—we can defeat the hopelessness of Alzheimer’s.

Listed below are some of the biggest challenges I had to deal with as a caregiver. For now, we can simply name them. Starting next week, we’ll look at each one individually. We’ll see how we and our loved ones can survive each of them, and even all of them together. What is required is our determination to expect joy. And miracles.

dark tree

  • The beginning/acceptance/adjustment

A diagnosis of Alzheimer’s doesn’t have to be the end of living. Though at first it seems we must prepare for the worst, caregivers can learn to think and act differently. We can learn to focus on the positive, on capabilities instead of losses. We can learn to expect help and miracles from the Lord. We can learn that life with Alzheimer’s is still lived one day at a time, so the challenges of this day are all we have to deal with.

  •  Mood changes

Mood and personality changes often accompany Alzheimer’s. Some can be explained logically: irritability, frustration, and anger are natural reactions to the many kinds of confusion Alzheimer’s thrusts on our loved ones. If depression is also present, it can bring on sadness, hopelessness, and even more anger. We caregivers will come upon ways to help our loved ones navigate the sea of mood swings, but we must be looking for them, expecting to find them. Emotional help comes in many forms, unique to each individual. In addition, you’ll find that keeping your doctor fully informed is necessary and helpful.

  • Withdrawing

Someone with Alzheimer’s is likely to withdraw into silence in social settings and even at home with family. Difficulty recognizing people, inability to follow or contribute to a conversation, noise, a crowded room—many aspects of being with a group of people may make someone with Alzheimer’s uncomfortable. But again, if we look for them, we’ll find ways to help those we care for continue to participate in family life. These will be some of the most satisfying strategies we’ll bring to our loved ones.

  • Hostility

 Loss of the ability to exercise good judgment and control impulses leads some, not all,  Alzheimer’s patients to become verbally and even physically hostile. But you can keep yourself and your loved one safe; your local Alzheimer’s Association, your doctor, and your local senior center can help you get the assistance you need to resolve this problem.

  • Anxiety

When we don’t know exactly what is going on in the moment and have no idea what to expect in the future, it’s no wonder we feel anxious. Anxiety, though understandable, can be overpowering, mentally and physically. Both caregivers and those with Alzheimer’s are subject to it. The miracle is that we don’t have to surrender to it. Weapons are available to fight anxiety. We can learn to use them for ourselves and for our loved ones.

  • Incontinence

Eventually, those with Alzheimer’s lose the ability to control their bodily functions. Having to tend to loved ones in this situation is a painful reminder for caregivers that roles have changed. But if we act out of love in addition to simple necessity, we elevate the task and we honor our loved ones. And the miracle is that in the midst of that, our love grows.

  •  Hygiene

Alzheimer’s complicates hygiene. Tasks as simple as washing hands become demanding and exhausting. But we learn to do what we can. And we learn to ask for the help we need.

  • Isolation

At-home caregivers and their loved ones usually don’t have much company. Friends and neighbors are hesitant to visit; they don’t know when to come, what to expect, what to talk about. So caregivers get lonely. But we can tell others how we feel. We can learn to ask for what we need. When we do, we have more control over our situation.

  • Lack of Recognition

For many people with Alzheimer’s, the day comes when they no longer recognize friends and family members. Even those closest to them may become strangers. Perhaps they simply cannot call them by name, or perhaps they have no recognition or knowledge of them at all. Painful? Yes. But it doesn’t have to be tragic. The miracle is that even strangers may become friends.

bright treeThe hardest things—your list may differ from mine. But the point isn’t that certain things are so much more difficult than others, but that in a disease filled with so much pain, for the patient and everyone close to them, even the hardest things can be borne. Even the hardest things will succumb to miracles. And if we look we’ll see miracles every day.

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus (1Thessolonians 5:16-18  NIV).

Faith in You, Lord, is our surest resource. Even in the hardest times, we trust you will show us Your wisdom. We know you are always with us, and where You are, miracles abound.

Who’s Driving?

Alzheimer’s isn’t a simple here-to-there journey. Instead of a superhighway, it’s a winding road, with switchbacks and opportunities to turn here, or there, or maybe on that path up ahead.take the wheel

Whoever sits in the driver’s seat chooses the route.

When a loved one has dementia, the issue of decision-making moves front and center almost immediately. Sometimes there’s no question as to who should make the choices your loved one can no longer reason through. But in other cases, family members may have very different opinions about how to meet the challenges, large and small, associated with dementia. Those differences of opinion—between a parent and children or among siblings—can add immeasurably to the difficulties of caring for a loved one.

A spouse who isn’t able to find and consider all the options may yet insist on being the only decision-maker. Or one sibling may have to defend her role as the one best equipped to evaluate conditions and make choices for a parent, while brothers and sisters demand an equal say.

Choosing who is in the best position to make choices in caregiving matters may appear easy from the outside looking in. Surely it would be the relative or friend who has the most daily contact with the person being cared for, right? Would that it were so simple. First consider the fact that the decisions to be made are usually painful ones: Should we take away Dad’s car keys? Is Mom safe to go out into the neighborhood alone? Should someone assume control of finances, home maintenance, medications, purchases, donations, etc.,etc.,etc.? In addition, Alzheimer’s is a disease that affects a whole family. So questions of capability, trust, motivation, and judgment may erupt among family members just at the time when they most need level heads and teamwork.

In my own case, I know I shouldn’t have allowed my father to make all the decisions about Mom’s care. He was healthy, his mind was spry and rational, but he was determined that his life with Mom would not change. His choices were based on emotion, not common sense. So why didn’t I challenge him?

From childhood, Mom taught me to leave Dad alone. To avoid her wrath, I complied. To the letter. After all, Mom called all the shots in our house

Until Mom got Alzheimer’s.

I met Alzheimer’s the day Mom went berserk (I don’t know what else to call it—that’s what it looked like, sounded like, and felt like) in my son’s apartment. Her struggle with me and Dad exhausted her. She landed on the couch like a thrown log, stiff and leaning to one side, but eventually she lay down.I put a pillow under her head and said a prayer of thanksgiving when she fell asleep.

Right about then, Dad’s behavior became almost as mystifying to me as Mom’s had been. He sat in my son’s old thrift-store recliner, staring down at his hands. He turned them palm up, then palm down, then put them on his knees. He neither looked at me nor spoke.

Trained as I was to avoid upsetting Dad, I kept quiet also. No questions – Have you seen her act like that before? Does she do it often? Have you talked to a doctor about it? Not even a puzzled look. I did my best to ignore the tension in the room as completely as Dad was ignoring me.

When my son came home from work, Mom woke up, smiled at him, and called him by name. As I rejoiced that she was “back to normal,” Dad gave me a look that said, “This afternoon never happened. Don’t mention it.”

My obedience to that silent command set the stage for the rest of my caregiving days. I was never in charge. Or, more correctly, I never took charge.

Dad said he and Mom could manage fine; I didn’t disagree. Instead, I simply came to their house every day to “help.” Dad saw no need to take Mom to the doctor. When at last I convinced him, he let Mom do all the talking. Dad said nothing about her bizarre behavior; so neither did I. The many times I asked Dad to get professional help, even for just one day a week, he refused. With a trained aide, Dad would have been able to do whatever he wanted for a day. I would have had a day off. Mom would have gotten more exercise, been safer taking a bath. She would have gotten used to having someone else help her, just in case a day came when neither Dad nor I could be there. (Those days day did come.) But I didn’t insist. Not even for the sake of Mom’s well-being. I didn’t take control, even when I knew Dad was making a bad decision.

As crazy as it seems to me now, I let Dad stay in the driver’s seat while I just hung on, praying we wouldn’t crash.

driverBut you don’t have to do that. Instead of just riding along, you can drive.

The one who makes decisions regarding the care of someone with Alzheimer’s holds an awesome responsibility. The position requires not just common sense, but strength and courage. The choices are seldom easy, and they go on for the rest of your loved one’s life.

Information is a decision-maker’s best friend. Consulting your doctor, an Alzheimer’s support group, your local senior citizens center, and your local office of the Alzheimer’s Association will show you more options and help you evaluate each one. With that information, you can be more confident you’re choosing wisely for your loved one.

I instruct you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths (Prov. 4:11).  (NIV)

Lord, we’re doing our best to guide our loved ones through the wilderness of Alzheimer’s. Please lead us with Your wisdom to make sound decisions. We thank you for Your tender love, Your mercy, and Your faithfulness to all Your promises.

Moving Forward

 It’s one of those days.

You know the kind? One of those days when—for no apparent reason—the world looks bleak. We wake up and something’s different. Some dial inside us that should be turned to high is stuck at low. We recognize the heaviness of heart and lack of motivation. Yet here is the day. We can move through it in survival mode, or we can live it. At least we can try.

The living is in the effort we expend. 

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Help. We give it. We need it. Some days more than others. 

My routine offers comfort. The water cooperates; I hear it bubbling. Steam fills the empty air with the strong scent of Earl Grey. I brew it longer. Darker. Add extra sugar with the milk. 

I open the blinds to sunshine I don’t feel, so I go out into it, carrying the flowered china mug, the special one I reserve for celebrations. Walking, sipping, I realize plants are still growing, the air is still morning-fragrant, the sky is still up, the earth—black soil and green grass—is still down.  

Strange to see the day, watch it unfold, without sensing its energy. But seeing is believing, I tell myself, and I feel myself agree.

Here is the day. Hard perhaps, but the one I am given. I can survive it or I can live it. Starting—that’s the hardest. So I lift my mug and celebrate this beginning. I thank the Lord who created water to boil and tea to brew and fragrant daylight and solid ground. I promise to make good use of them. 

“Move forward and see what happens.” My day. My effort. My choice. 

Thank You, Father, for reminding me once again that I do not have to face today, or any day, alone. You are light in darkness, power in weakness, comfort in sadness. May I claim Your promise for this day and use it to Your purpose and Your glory.  

“I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip—he who watches over you will not slumber….”  (Ps. 121:1-3  NIV)

Waiting in Confidence

Alzheimer’s is a waiting room.

Caregivers live there. Often we feel we are held hostage, helpless. We wait for the nothingness we know will come, watching for it but trying to keep it at bay. Our loved ones just wait—they don’t know for what. One day they won’t even care.

It’s hard to be in any waiting room. And harder still to see we have any power there.

But we do have power. We have options. We can sit in the pain and anticipate the inevitable or we can seize the moments given to us, wringing the beauty from each one. 

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Today we sit on blue upholstered chairs outside the doctor’s office. We were lucky to find three places; most of the chairs were full when we arrived.

Lots of people waiting. It’ll be a long afternoon. My mind goes by habit to the concerns of being in public with Mom.

Do these people look at her and decide I’m an unfit caregiver? Her hair is dirty and matted against her head. As usual. Her shirt is so wrinkled, it looks like she slept in it last night. (She did.) Her hands are folded in her lap, so her long, uneven fingernails take center stage. That light patch on her left pant leg is the skin of her knee showing through a hole in her favorite black slacks.

I watch for signs Mom is getting restless. I pray she doesn’t start pointing and talking about the other people in the room. If our wait is too long, she’ll just get up and walk out. And I can’t let her do that—it took us too long to get her here. But how will I stop her?

When Mom starts rocking in her chair, Dad stands. With his hands in his pockets, he paces, walking the length of the long narrow room in short but purposeful strides. Back and forth. Back and forth. He’s making me dizzy, so I stare at the floor. Mom’s shamrock tennis shoes—the only shoes she’ll wear—are camouflaged against the dingy carpet.

That’s how time passes in the waiting room. It’s hard to find value in it. We have to bring it here ourselves. A book to read, a letter to write, the internet on a cell phone, music through tiny earbuds—opportunities to make the time count for something before it slips away.

While I listen to the jangle of coins in Dad’s pocket and pat Mom’s hand to keep her from pointing, I tell myself again that worth can be found even in the waiting room of Alzheimer’s. Why do I dwell on the negative, expecting the worst when all is well?

I promise myself, one more time, to turn on the lights and turn up the music in the waiting room. I decide to enjoy the satisfaction of small accomplishments—Mom’s hair brushed, her shoes tied. I marvel at the big ones—Mom being here at all, on time for a doctor’s appointment. I pray in thanks for the receptionist who always comes from behind the desk to give Mom a hug and then stays to talk a few minutes with Dad. I choose  to delight in Mom’s soft smile at a baby in a passing stroller, to relish the temporary quiet of her hand in mine.

Instead of watching for disaster, Lord, I’ll expect Your help. 

You are the light, Lord, and You never leave my side. Help me to stand confident on the rock of Your strength, walk forward in the brightness of Your love, watch faithfully for Your powerful help. When I’m tempted to doubt, to despair, to stop trying, turn my eyes on Your face, and I will be renewed.   

“My soul, wait silently for God alone, for my expectation is from Him. He only is my rock and my salvation…I shall not be moved.”   Ps. 62: 5-6  (NKJV)