A client recently called and said, "I can’t do it anymore."
She was the only adult child proximate to her mother. Her mother’s needs had taken another precipitous dive, which was going to require her to ramp up her efforts and provide even more care. She had expected, when she took on this role fully willingly, that it would last a year, two tops. But now, at nearly four years out and no end in sight, she was starting to unravel.
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She was, as a dear friend once wrote, "embarking on a cross country trip on a quarter tank of gas."
Many years ago, when I was living in the Soviet Union -- when it was still called the Soviet Union -- I was trying to explain to someone there the western concept of insurance.
"Wait a minute," he said, "you can buy this thing from a company that guarantees if something bad happens in the future, you’ll be fine?"
"Right," I said, nodding and smiling.
In that moment I understood how ridiculous this concept was. I mean can you really buy your way out of difficult circumstances? Sure, insurance provides a financial cushion, but not the whole solution.
What helps with the other parts?
Not long ago, I had dinner with three of my dearest friends. We have known each other since our oldest children were toddlers. We have seen each other through some very high highs and devastatingly low lows.
One of their daughters, who has spent more nights at my house than I can count, was heading to the hospital within days for a bone marrow transplant. Now in seventh grade, this lovely girl had been in and out of treatment for leukemia for over six years. When it became apparent that the last treatment had not worked and that a bone marrow transplant was imminent, my friend immediately called our wise minister, Christopher Edmonston.
"Tell me this will work," she begged.
He listened. He comforted her as best he could. I know he would have loved to say yes. He has such a large heart. But instead he said the harder thing to say, "There are no guarantees."
How do we live through situations that seem beyond us?
One night in the hospital, this particular friend had her daughter, in her best script, write "Choose Joy." The next day, my friend had her daughter's message tattooed on her inner left forearm.
I know, from personal experience, this can seem utterly impossible. Really? Choose joy? Under these circumstances?
But for those who have done the opposite, maybe you understand that that comes with its own price.
So I encourage you. Choose joy. Choose joy. Choose joy!