The Small Mercies That Keep Us Going

There is a kind of weariness that settles into a caregiver long before anyone else notices it.

It does not always announce itself loudly. More often, it comes quietly — in the ache behind the eyes, in the heaviness of the body, in the way even a simple task can begin to feel larger than it should. It comes in interrupted sleep and forgotten meals, in living by alarms and updates and appointments, in carrying fear so steadily for so long that it almost begins to feel like part of the furniture of everyday life.

And perhaps one of the strangest parts of all is this: after a while, even rest can begin to feel like guilt.

That is not something many people talk about, but it is true. There comes a point in caregiving when the things that would ordinarily be considered basic human needs — sleep, food, quiet, a shower, clean clothes, a moment to breathe — begin to feel as though they must somehow be justified. As though needing them means you are doing something wrong. As though stepping away for even a little while means you are somehow stepping away from love itself.

But love was never meant to destroy the one carrying it.

That is something this season has taught me in ways I never would have chosen to learn.

When Dexter got the call for his liver transplant, we were stunned by how quickly it all happened. We knew, of course, that the call could come at any time. That is the nature of waiting. But there is a difference between knowing a thing in theory and hearing your phone ring and realizing that your entire life is about to be rearranged in an instant.

And rearranged it was.

Everything we had been doing, everything we had been planning, everything familiar and ordinary — it all came to a halt. For the next month, our world became centered around one thing only: getting through. Getting through the surgery, getting through recovery, getting through the fear, the exhaustion, the waiting, the uncertainty, the hospital rooms, the phone calls, the instructions, the prayers, the moments of hope, and the moments when hope felt very far away.

Anyone who has ever walked through serious illness knows how quickly life narrows in a season like that. The world becomes smaller somehow. Time stops behaving normally. Days blur. Meals are forgotten. Your body is one place while your mind is ten steps ahead, bracing for the next update, the next symptom, the next concern, the next need.

And in all of that, the caregiver becomes something strange and invisible.

Not invisible in the sense that no one sees them at all, but invisible in the sense that their depletion is often the quietest thing in the room.

The patient is rightfully the center of concern. Their pain is immediate. Their needs are urgent. Their suffering is visible. But the one sitting in the chair beside the bed, the one driving back and forth, the one carrying logistics and fear and responsibility and emotional atmosphere — that person is often expected to continue functioning as though they are not also slowly being worn thin.

That has been one of the harder truths for me to sit with lately.

Because if I am honest, one of the deepest strains of this season was not only the physical exhaustion itself, but the guilt that seemed to attach itself to every effort I made to recover from it.

I found myself in a rhythm that, on paper, should have made it obvious that I was doing everything I could. Going to bed at midnight. Waking up at five in the morning. Getting myself back to the hospital by six. Living in that constant back-and-forth of responsibility, adrenaline, and concern. And yet, somehow, there were still moments where it felt as though not being physically present in Dexter’s hospital room twenty-four hours a day was viewed as though I had not done enough.

That is a painful thing to carry, because when you love someone deeply, your own conscience is already tender. You are already asking yourself whether you are doing enough, staying enough, praying enough, helping enough. You do not need much outside pressure for guilt to take root in a heart that is already exhausted.

And yet that is often what happens in caregiving.

Fear enters the room, and once it does, it begins to distort things.

It can make people cling tighter.

It can make absence feel larger than it is.

It can make ordinary human needs look selfish.

It can make one night at home feel like abandonment, one real meal feel indulgent, one full night of sleep feel somehow disloyal.

But fear does not always tell the truth.

And I say that with tenderness, because I do not say any of this to villainize Dexter. That would not be honest. He was afraid. And when a person is frightened, hurting, vulnerable, and facing the uncertainty of their own body, fear can speak louder than reason. It can make them need more than they know how to ask for gently. It can make them cling in ways they normally would not. It can make love come out sounding like desperation.

That is not cruelty.

That is fear talking.

And if we are honest, there is grace needed on both sides of that reality.

Because while he was carrying the terror of what his body had been through, I was carrying the terror of nearly losing him, all while trying to hold together enough of life to keep us both functioning. We were not enemies in that room. We were two frightened people standing in the same storm, each carrying a different side of it.

And perhaps that is why this lesson has cut so deeply into me.

Because there came moments when I had to say something that felt simple, but was not simple at all:

I could not take care of him if I was not allowed to take care of myself first.

That sentence is so obvious when written neatly on a page. But in the middle of crisis, it can feel almost rebellious to say it aloud.

Because there is a lie that often follows caregivers like a shadow — the lie that love must always look like depletion. That if you really love someone, you should be willing to run yourself all the way into the ground without pause, without limits, without need, and without complaint.

But that is not love.

That is collapse wearing the language of devotion.

And there is a difference.

The truth is, I was not trying to get away from him when I needed to go home. I was trying to stay well enough to come back. I was trying to preserve enough of myself to keep showing up with clarity, tenderness, patience, and strength. I was trying to remain human.

And in seasons like this, the things that preserve our humanity are often so small they almost feel foolish to name.

A bed.

A shower.

A quiet room.

A hot meal.

Clean clothes.

A washed load of laundry.

Animals that still need tending.

A house that still needs some measure of order.

The sacred relief of stepping outside hospital walls and hearing ordinary life again.

The mercy of a few uninterrupted hours of sleep.

Those things may not look holy to the outside world, but I have come to believe they are.

Because when life is in crisis, comfort stops being indulgence and starts becoming mercy.

The smallest mercies are often the very things that keep a caregiver from disappearing entirely.

And maybe that is what I want to say most clearly here, for anyone else reading this who is walking through their own caregiving season and quietly feeling guilty for needing care too:

Rest is not betrayal.

Going home for one night is not betrayal.

Eating is not betrayal.

Sleeping is not betrayal.

Washing your clothes is not betrayal.

Stepping outside to breathe is not betrayal.

Tending to your own body, your own home, your own responsibilities, and your own mind is not a lack of love.

It is stewardship.

It is wisdom.

It is one of the ways God quietly sustains those who are carrying more than most people can see.

There is a verse that has stayed close to me in recent days:

“He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.”

— Isaiah 40:29

Not to the polished.

Not to the endlessly composed.

Not to the ones who never feel tired.

To the faint.

To the ones who have come to the end of themselves.

To the ones who are trying to love well while running on almost nothing.

To the ones whose bodies are weary and whose hearts are stretched thin and whose minds cannot seem to fully come down from survival mode.

That is who the Lord speaks to.

And I think that matters, because caregivers so often live in the quiet belief that they must keep going without ever needing to be held up themselves. But God has never asked us to be made of iron. He has never demanded that we be machines. He has never confused self-erasure with holiness.

If anything, He seems especially near to those who have become faint in the carrying.

Perhaps that is why the smallest things have felt so sacred to me lately. A few hours of sleep. A clean shirt. A moment of stillness. A little food. A chance to sit down. A little peace in the middle of so much pressure. These are not glamorous things. They are not dramatic things. But they are often the very places where grace quietly appears.

And I suppose that is what I want caregivers to hear today:

You are not selfish because you are tired.

You are not failing because you need rest.

You are not abandoning the person you love because you need to care for your own body and soul too.

You are human.

And God has not overlooked that.

He sees the one in the hospital bed, yes. But He also sees the one sitting in the chair beside it. The one driving back and forth. The one carrying fear in one hand and responsibility in the other. The one trying to remain steady while quietly unraveling at the edges.

He sees the caregiver too.

And if no one has told you lately, let me say it plainly:

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to eat.

You are allowed to go home.

You are allowed to need.

And no — that does not mean you loved them less.

Sometimes it simply means you are trying to survive this storm without disappearing inside of it.

And that matters.

More than people realize.

Closing Prayer

Lord,

For every caregiver reading this who is running on exhaustion, guilt, and very little rest, I ask that You would meet them gently today.

Strengthen the ones who have become faint.

Comfort the ones who have felt unseen.

Quiet the hearts of those who have been carrying fear for so long that they no longer know how to set it down.

Remind them that needing sleep does not make them selfish.

Remind them that needing food, quiet, comfort, and rest does not make them weak.

Remind them that they are not abandoning the people they love by tending to the bodies and minds You gave them.

And Lord, for those caught in the painful tension of loving someone through fear and suffering, grant grace on both sides. Bring understanding where there has been pressure, gentleness where there has been strain, and peace where there has been weariness.

Give power to the faint, just as You promised.

And in the smallest mercies of each day, let Your presence be felt.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

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