You are given some control, enough to make you feel at times like the weight of the world is on you. This is especially true when making life-changing decisions like who to marry or what career to pursue. Those weighty decisions are scary.

This year I found myself at a crossroads. I have come to a painful realization. The demands of my current job leave me depleted — with too little left to give at home, and too little left for myself.

This whole school year I have taken time to contemplate and work through the idea of retiring from the job I have come to love. It surprised me how much I would love coaching.

I began this new position in my Title 1 school in the wake of COVID. There were enormous learning gaps to address along with an influx of newcomer students who had little or no formal schooling. During my first week in the job, my mother died. Five months later, Tom’s health began to unravel. From February to April, I stepped away from school to care for him and to adjust to a dramatically different life as caregiver to my brain-injured husband. I returned to school and poured myself into making a positive difference in the lives of the students and staff during a challenging time in education.

Over the past four years, academic growth was steady but slow. There were days when data felt heavy and expectations felt relentless. Yet I can say that children were loved and taught well. Teachers who poured out their hearts were seen and encouraged. Teachers who were struggling were supported, not shamed. I did what I set out to do.

I have worked with three first-year principals during these years. The demands on them were great and I wanted to be a support, though I was still new at the job. I tried to walk the difficult tightrope of being a liaison and messenger for my district and principal. At the same time, I wanted to remain true to my own values and mission as a coach and friend to the teachers I love. I didn’t always succeed. My job had many parts. Each day I chose the highest-impact actions I could see. And then, like the little boy with his fish and loaves, I left my small offering in God’s hands. I trusted Him to take the little and to make it sufficient for the day.

Recently, a teacher told me that I made her feel like she had a place of belonging at our school, something she had not felt at her previous school. She loved sitting in the comfy chair in my office just to talk. I was not her counselor or life coach. I simply listened and cared. When she told me that, I realized again that much of the most important work in education cannot be measured.

I still love what I am doing. That is what makes this decision to leave so tender. But I also know it is time. The season is changing and I must change with it. And perhaps this is the paradox of faith: “Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Letting go is not failure. It is trust. It is stepping into the adventure again — not gripping what has been, but receiving what is next.

I want to remember the good. I want to be grateful for the seeds planted and trust that they will continue to grow. I believe God used me. I believe He did His good work through me. And that realization — that I was invited into His work for a season— brings me sweet joy.

On one of my silent retreats at Mepkin Abbey, I had the privilege of talking to Fr. Christian, a ninety-something monk. I told him my frustrations with Tom’s resentment over people wanting time with him. I wanted to go out in the world and meet people and cultivate relationships with other adults. This need was heightened from being with my children all day, every day.

I also told him about Tom’s faith struggles and how upset he got at church when things were not the way they were supposed to be. His anger was palpable to me and to our children. It made Sundays difficult. Much of his frustration came from grief. He had poured years into preparing for ministry, only to lay that dream down. Returning to the Church he loved meant accepting losses he couldn’t fix and questions he couldn’t resolve.

I described to Fr. Christian more about my life with Tom. Dinner time was the highlight of the day. Tom led us in conversations about all sorts of subjects. He supported me in making my dreams come true—being able to stay at home to raise and educate my children. He brought joy in the house with his singing and made life fun by taking our kids on excursions and road trips.

Fr. Christian responded, “He doesn’t sound so bad. Next time you are invited to a party, tell him you and the children will be going and that you will bring home some treats for him.”

I told Tom about the conversation I’d had with the monk. He smiled from ear to ear. He felt understood.

When I went back to working full-time, teaching second graders, I remember the moment I felt what Tom had felt. My relationship tank was drained after a day of teaching. I relished being at home with my family and laying low. Now I truly understood.

“Saul or David? Which one are you?”

Both men were chosen by God and anointed king of Israel. Both sinned in grievous ways. Saul was overcome with fear of losing public support so he ignored God and chose his own way, trying to justify his actions and insinuating he knew better than God. David was morally weak and allowed his sinful desires to rule even to the point of murder.

But there was a major difference between the two. One man turned his face toward God. The simple act of turning to God is what made the difference. He accepted the truth—as hard as it was—that he was a murderer and a morally weak and corrupt man. He acknowledged that the One he offended most was God. He turned his face to the Light. To Truth. To Goodness and Mercy. And his life was restored.

So, both were great men with great sins. But one man turned his face to God. I hear the preacher asking, “Which one are you?”

I often think about this in terms of life’s circumstances. When all hell breaks loose or when an obstacle trips us up. When we are hurt, confused, numb, or angry. Are we like Saul or David? It isn’t that one man is better, it is that one man turns. One man turns to the God of Light. The God who hears. The God who knows. The God who delivers.

There are so many situations in which the best move is to cry out in my heart a one-word prayer. “Help.” Or “Jesus!”

The Catholic Catechism says, “The invocation of the holy name of Jesus is the simplest way of praying always.” And my favorite line in the Catechism, because of its truth, is this: “Jesus’ name invokes the presence of the One who is named.”

(CCC 2666 and 2668)

My mom always told us girls that if ever we were in danger we could just speak the name of Jesus and the darkness would have to flee. Not like a magic incantation, but the presence of Jesus is powerful. He is the Savior of the world.

I remember my atheist roommate in college telling me she had such horrible nightmares that she was afraid to go to sleep. Though she was not a believer, I shared my mother’s advice and asked her to try it one night and see what happens. So that night she whispered the name of Jesus as she lay in bed. The next morning she was amazed that she had not had any nightmares. I was equally amazed.

When in trouble, or in sin, or in fear, it is always within our power to turn toward the Light. Life may be hard—very hard. But our part isn’t really that hard. It involves humility, faith and trust.

That sermon was a good one. I just have to be reminded from time to time.

It’s so easy to forget.

Today I went to our neighborhood public library, and while I was browsing, I found The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor. Years ago, I was intrigued by Flannery O’Connor, having heard that she was an odd Southern Catholic woman who wrote shockingly violent and grotesque stories, yet with an element of redemption and grace woven through them. I think I tried to read one of her books once and quit because it didn’t make sense to me. I did, however, read her journal, which was beautiful. She deeply desired to be an author who wrote in a way that pleased God and brought Him glory. She wrote, “Don’t let me ever think, dear God, that I was anything but the instrument for Your story—just like the typewriter was mine.”

So tonight, Tom and I read “The Geranium.” I recommend you read the story, but here is a brief summary.

It is about Old Dudley, who lived in a small rural town in the South and goes to live with his daughter in a small apartment in New York City. Dudley is homesick for life in the country, where he and his Black servant, Rabie, would go fishing and hunting. He remembers Rabie fondly, but as he reminisces, it becomes clear that although Rabie treated him kindly, Dudley is marred by racist attitudes and behaviors.

As Dudley sits in the New York City apartment, he notices that in the window across from his, every day a drab geranium plant is moved out and set on the windowsill, precariously close to the edge, where it bakes in the hot sun, and then is moved back in at night. It deeply bothers him that the plant is not truly cared for and is not in the right environment to thrive. He says it reminds him of “the boy at home who had polio and had to be wheeled out every morning and left in the sun to blink.” It was what they did dutifully, without love, without much thought beyond the sense that this is simply what you do.

“The methodical, mechanical act of putting the plant out and bringing it back in—dutifully—does not help it thrive at all.”

Dudley is in New York because his daughter is doing her Christian duty of caring for him. No one else in the family would. She demanded that he come with her, and he succumbed. He is wretchedly homesick, displaced from everything that was comfortable and familiar. He misses his Black servants, who were kind and good, and he begins to sense—perhaps for the first time—that maybe he was not so good in return.

Then Dudley notices a sharply dressed Black man in the apartment across the hall. He is shocked that a servant could look so good. Remembering his fishing and hunting trips with Rabie, he wonders whether this Black servant might go fishing with him. But he soon learns from his daughter that this man is moving into the apartment and is not a servant at all. Dudley begins ranting and raving, making the worst kinds of racist remarks.

Later, Dudley goes out to get something for his daughter. On the stairs, he becomes lost in memory, and the Black man finds him—showing him love and kindness beyond belief, helping him back to his apartment one step at a time. When Dudley returns to the apartment, a lump rising in his throat, he breaks down into sobs. He looks out the window and sees that the geranium across the way is no longer on the windowsill. It has fallen to the ground. The owner does not care.

Dudley wants to go down the steps to save the geranium, but he remembers walking up the stairs behind the Black man who “pulled him up on his feet and kept his arm in his,” talking with him about hunting deer and calling him old-timer. He would not go down again and have a N. patting him on the back! So Dudley retreats into the apartment, while the geranium remains in a pile of dirt, its roots sticking straight up.

There are so many paradoxes in this story.

Dudley has experienced tender love and friendship with Rabie, whom he nevertheless treats as inferior. He resents his daughter for doing her Christian duty in bringing him into her home, yet there is absolutely no loving, tender relationship between them.

Dudley remembers how geraniums once thrived in the country. He observes how the methodical, mechanical act of putting the plant out and bringing it back in—dutifully—does not help it thrive at all. The careless attitude, in fact, is the cause of its demise.

Grace comes to Dudley through a Black man. The experience of love and kindness creates a crack into which grace seeps. Dudley cannot help but break down.

“Grace comes to us and breaks us, and then we fall back into our old sinful patterns of living.”

But just as he is on the verge of retrieving the plant and giving it the care he always believed it deserved, the deep roots of racism rise up, and the grace seems to disappear.

Is this a despairing end? Maybe. But maybe not. Perhaps grace comes to us and breaks us, and then we fall back into our old sinful patterns of living. Graces are not once and done. They continue to come, and if we can humble ourselves—empty ourselves of old ways of thinking—those graces may begin to remake us into better images of God.

One day, my next door neighbor who also was a mom of two young ones, told me about a counseling session she had with her therapist. Her therapist posed a question that really helped her. “How about settling for being a pretty good mom instead of a perfect mom?” My immediate reaction was, “No!” Who would shoot for pretty good? I thought Christians were supposed to strive for excellence in everything—especially in mothering. “No,” I decided. “I will keep striving for perfect over pretty good.” Still, something deep within questioned this decision. It has been something I’ve grappled with my whole life.

Not too long after this, my mom, who was born in 1924, seventh child of ten, said to me one day, “Quit reading books about parenting. Go with your gut. You are the mother. You can figure this out yourself.” It made me laugh and set me free. What difference did all those books do anyway? I guess I wanted to believe there was a formula for getting everything right so my kids would be okay. It was well-intentioned but a little silly.

In both caregiving and in my work at school I really want to get an A+. I wish I was okay with a C. It is mostly my pride that wants perfection, but I can’t blame it all on pride. I think that there are some good motives and intentions underneath these high expectations for myself. Love for my husband, for teachers, for students. I don’t want to let them down because I care. But the constant striving to get it all right wears me out.

We run out of pills because I didn’t stay on top of it.

Tom gets sick because I didn’t want to throw out the whole milk from Thanksgiving, even though I knew he clearly needed lactose-free milk.

The paperwork piles up on my desk at home.

At work, I try to follow the rules and end up hurting someone’s feelings. Or I promise to do something and forget about it and let someone down.

I get preoccupied with so many things—and though I try to be an active listener, there are times when my brain is on overload and I am not fully present.

I care about what people think. But the truth is, people aren’t thinking about me too much. They are fighting their own battles. Striving to do what is best. Wanting to get it all right, just like me. Or just wanting to be loved and encouraged in a world that can be rough and difficult. What we all want is some grace and understanding.

So when I mess up, which I do regularly, it’s really a good opportunity to accept my humanity. Today I’m going to be at peace with being pretty good and sometimes not so good. It’s all in the context that I was created by One who is Perfect. Perfect in love, in goodness and in mercy. I belong to Him. When I can’t stand, I can fall on his grace. When I come to terms with my poverty and neediness, I make room for His life and grace.

This Advent I want to welcome Jesus into my messy life. To ask Him to come again. To fill me with forgiveness, comfort, help, strength and peace.

Come, Lord Jesus.

The interview reminded me that Tom is still Tom. He is a communicator at heart. Though he speaks only in short phrases or sentences, the words are carefully chosen and he is able to communicate just as powerfully as before his brain injury.

Me: What has been the biggest change since your brain surgery?

Tom: Not counseling with people at work.

Me: (curious, because he was not a counselor) Who did you counsel with at work?

Tom: People like Thomas.

Ahh. Thomas is Tom’s good friend. They talked daily about menial things and meaningful things. Tom’s friendships with his coworkers meant a lot to him. Being a part of a Catholic theology department at Bishop England meant the opportunity to discuss subjects that were interesting to Tom.

Me: Do you miss that?

Tom: Somewhat.

Me: What has been another big change?

Tom: Time. I have time now.

He says it in a way that he seems to appreciate it, but I’m not sure so I dig deeper.

Me: Is it good?

Tom: Yes.

Me: What do you do with this time?

Tom points to his head and says, “Think.”

Me: Do you like time to think?

Tom: Yes.

Do you think that when you are thinking you are communing with God? (I regret asking a leading question. I really want to hear from Tom and his heart. I don’t want to lead him. I want him to speak freely.)

Tom: Yes.

Do you think in words or sensing?

Tom: Both.

Me: When Lisa, the caregiver is here, do you have time to think?

Tom: Yes.

Me: Do you like when Lisa is here?

Tom: I don’t mind it.

Me: What is the overall sense during the day.

Tom: Quiet.

Me: What kind of a quiet?

Tom: Thought-provoking.

Me: Can you tell me any theme or subject of your thoughts?

Tom: Going back to work.

He says this a lot.

Me: Is it disturbing to think of that?

Tom: No.

Me: Do you have hope?

Tom: He nods, yes.

Me: What do you imagine might realistically happen?

Tom: Kids in my class grow closer to God.

Me: How will that happen?

Tom: Listening to me. A lot of them already have the gift, they don’t know it yet.

Me: What gift?

Tom: The gift of drawing others to God.

Tom still sees himself as a teacher. It is something that occupies a lot of his thinking. It doesn’t agitate him. It seems to give him hope. It is a mystery I don’t understand. I find it interesting and perplexing at the same time.

Me: At Thanksgiving, what should I know about making it nice for you?

Tom: You can be quiet. I will be me. I’m okay.

Tom is caring for me by knowing the burden I bear and lifting it off my shoulders.

Me: I’m going to rest a lot today. Tell me it’s okay.

Tom: It’s okay.

He says it in a way that convinces me it is okay.

Such a mystery. Tom is a good teacher. Even now, with fewer words and quieter days, he is teaching me to accept my fatigue, to slow down, to rest without guilt.

I can be quiet, like Tom.

It’s okay.

It’s more than okay.

Tom liked to make fun of some of the movies I enjoyed—the ones in the genre of “terrible medical tragedies.” One documentary was co-produced by a woman who had recovered from a stroke. She guided the producers and actors in simulating life before, during, and after a stroke. It was so real and disturbing, but it gave me such empathy for stroke victims and survivors. Tom thought I was a little deranged for liking something like that.

Then there was the documentary about a man who was hiking alone and got his arm wedged between two boulders. He had to drink his own urine to stay alive and, not only that, he had to amputate his arm so he could free himself from the rocks. Then he put on a tourniquet and ran for help. He survived. Again, Tom howled in disgust that I could spend my time watching such a story.

One of the very best movies of this type impressed me so deeply that when I was hit with Tom’s medical tragedy, it came to mind again and again, encouraging me to find creative ways to make our life more lovely. The movie Breathe tells the true story of Robin Cavendish who becomes paralyzed from the neck down and can only breathe with a respirator. He faces a lifetime in a hospital bed because, at the time (the 1950s), there was no safe way to transport someone with a portable respirator. His wife, Diana, is resourceful and thinks outside the box, and with the help of friends and a few supportive medical staff, she finds a way to free her husband from institutional life.

Throughout the movie, she and her husband take serious risks in order to make his life more livable and joyful. She has to fight hard for his freedom and for a life that still holds meaning. Little did I know that one day I would be given the chance to make my husband’s disabled life one that still holds joy, laughter, and hope—just as she did.

During the one month Tom was in the ICU and the four months in rehabs and assisted living, I wondered what life would be like once we got home. Tom was in such poor shape after his brainstem surgery that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to care for him on my own, though I was determined to try.

I am grateful my family encouraged me to get an apartment, since our split-foyer house could not accommodate a wheelchair and the bathrooms were too narrow for safe transfers to the toilet and tub. Moving into a wheelchair accessible apartment with a balcony overlooking trees and a nature path was key to our healing.

For me, I have tried to balance my own needs—to be a happy, healthy caregiver—with Tom’s needs as he recovers from a very invasive brainstem surgery. I want to share some of these things because I think the basic principle is helpful to anyone.

• I make jokes with Tom—just as I did before. And he laughs. Laughter is such good medicine.

• I buy fresh flowers from Trader Joe’s. They remind me that in our marred life, there is still extravagant beauty—like the beauty of a brightly colored bouquet.

• We do the things we used to enjoy. Simple things. Going to the grocery store together. Going to Mass together. Listening to a podcast and talking about it. Talking about our children. Watching a reality show or a series we like. Showing affection—holding hands, giving a kiss, or holding the hug just a little bit longer.

• We have date nights with couples we enjoy—low-key fun.

• We have dinners with our kids and grandkids.

• We listen to favorite songs. Sometimes Tom will try to sing along, and I dance for him.

These are the things that make our life feel less like a tragedy and more like a gift. I don’t blame Tom for mocking those tragic medical movies I love so much. But I can say for sure—he has benefited from my having watched them.

Robin Cavendish, “I don’t want to just survive. I want to truly live.”

“It is not always wrong even to go, like Dante, to the brink of the lowest promontory and look down at hell. It is when you look up at hell that a serious miscalculation has probably been made.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the way he puts it. Could there be anything more serious and awful than landing in hell for all eternity? And then to follow it with such an understatement as — “a serious miscalculation has probably been made.”

But what I like most about this comment on hell is that idea that we shouldn’t be shaken when we look into hell or at hell. If hell is the absence of God—the absence of love, light, and goodness—then it is every situation we hear of or experience that is dark, evil, and void of God.

Every day at my school I hear a heartbreaking story. Although I won’t share the exact details, these vignettes are similar to real cases:

• A mom who abandons her children and leaves a dad so angry that the children are anxious, angry, and starved for love.

• A child who comes to school every day smelling of marajuana and seems to be in a daze all day, having difficulty remembering what is taught and practiced.

• A teacher experiencing family life traumas of abuse and cruelty who has to come to school and hold out a torch of hope for children who need it so desperately.

• Parents lashing out at teachers and posting mean things about them on social media because they don’t know better, more courageous ways of solving conflict.

In my apartment building, there are lots of people post-retirement. Some of them are grieving widows with ailments that leave them vulnerable and frightened. Some are suffering from loneliness and loss of meaning. It’s not all darkness, though, because they find friendships here.

Then there is the pain and darkness in my own life: Tom’s total dependence on me for living. Husbands aren’t supposed to be like this. His broken-down body impinges on my freedom and asks of me what I really don’t want to give. My selfishness and cynicism that catch me off guard. My impatience and anger. My pride, which wants to do everything perfectly so I can be the heroine of the story.

My family and friends have stories of their own—hardships that are Gordian knots, illnesses, losses, and hurts.

The point I think Chesterton was making is that there is nothing wrong with looking hell squarely in the face. It is much better to see it from without than from within.

My conclusion is a reminder to myself to “walk in the light” and not to be afraid of the dark.

1 John 1:7
“But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.”

John 8:12
“Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’”

Psalm 27:1 — “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?”

Tom often called me a great interpreter of dreams, though I never had any formal training. I simply think about the person and their life, looking for connections in their dream. A little intuition mixed with insight usually brings about a pretty good interpretation.

On my way home from work, I decided to try to interpret my dream—and I think I’ve come pretty close to its heart.

The dream takes place at my parents’ house, where we moved in 1974 and where they lived until their deaths. Clean, orderly, beautifully decorated, warm, and inviting, their home could have been featured in House and Garden magazine. In the dream, my old Honda Odyssey was parked outside, and deer had gotten trapped inside. My sisters and I worked to get them out, and once freed, we saw that they had caused a lot of damage to the interior. I noticed that they had urinated on the carpet, and I knew the smell would probably linger no matter what we did. My sisters were sure it could all be cleaned, so we worked hard to remove the seats and cushions to restore the van. At one point, I said I didn’t need the car and just wanted to sell it for junk. But they insisted it could be fixed, and continued to work toward that end. That’s when I let out my blood-curdling scream.

My Honda.
I loved my Honda Odyssey. After years of struggling with subpar cars and living in a house that fell short, we finally had a brand-new, beautiful van with leather seats. When I was in my Honda, I felt respectable. I felt it reflected my parents’ values and expressed who I was and who I hoped to be.

My Honda represents the life I imagined for myself—the one that suited me best. It was comfortable, easy to drive, and turned on a dime. It had room for the ones I love—and it took us to nice, fun places.

The Deer.
The deer are gentle but powerful creatures, much like Tom and his brain injury. He is loving and well-intentioned. Yet, like the deer trapped in the Honda, he is confined in a body that sometimes wreaks havoc and disrupts our life. Incontinent, he produces mountains of laundry and messes that cannot be ignored. His dependence on me for meals, dressing, toileting, and practically everything else can feel like deer thrashing about in the van.

My Sisters.
My sisters symbolize my own drive to live up to the values of my upbringing—the “shoulds” and “musts” that push me to make my life as beautiful, clean, and orderly as possible. The effort can feel Herculean.

My Cry.
My scream is a release. What do I hate? I hate the pretense that all is fine when it is clearly not. There is pain beyond imagining, and I do not like it at all.

After the Dream.
Honesty is freeing. As I carry this cross, I know what I truly want—and it is not to run away or give up. I want to find God’s strength in my weakness. I want to find His comfort in my grief. I want to discover His grace and beauty in the less-than-perfect life of caring for Tom.

This morning, I was praying and meditating on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary with Bishop Barron.
He said, “The whole of Jesus’ life is a battle against the devil, culminating in the Cross. In the garden, the temptation to avoid following God’s will is evident. Yet, struggling against every instinct in his body, he demonstrates fortitude, utterly aligning his will to that of the Father: ‘Yet not my will but yours be done.’ … As we pray this decade, I invite you to see his great prayer in the garden as a guide for our own prayers and a key to lasting joy and peace: ‘Not my will, but yours be done.’”

Two things struck me: Christ’s demonstration of fortitude is something great and noble. If I am His follower, I must imitate Him in fortitude—and, thankfully, I have a cross perfectly suited to cultivating fortitude: the challenge of saying those difficult words, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

Without cynicism, I can pray: Trust me with this, Lord Jesus! Give me all the graces to keep saying ‘yes.’ Gather my tears on the hard days, and bless me with wells of refreshment along the way so that I may find joy even on this journey.

I started reading it aloud to Tom, hoping he might help me understand it. Philosophy is not easy for me, and I lack knowledge of the historical context in which Pieper was writing. Tom has been helpful, but even he has admitted that Pieper is a bit beyond his reach. Still, we decided to plod through, because there are truths here that are challenging and worth thinking about.

Pieper begins the first chapter by arguing that modern man has come to think his value is found in his work—specifically, in servile work.

“And surely,” he says, “until our task is done and our house is rebuilt, the only thing that matters is to strain every nerve.”

In Chapter 2, Pieper asks the question, “What happens when we look at a rose?” As I was reading this aloud to Tom, I paused to think of an answer.

Tom spoke, in his garbled speech, “We give it to one we love.”

So sweet, I thought. I let that sink in a bit. Then I asked Tom to tell me more. “What do you mean?”

“We give roses because they are beautiful. There is no other reason.”

Nothing utilitarian—but definitely exhilarating.

I am so grateful for Tom’s simple teachings. There are some things that serve no purpose other than to bring us joy. These are the higher things.

Recently, I had some encounters with someone who was not showing me the kindness and respect that I thought I deserved, and the phrase kept coming into my mind: “I don’t need this!” I am almost 65 years old, and I guess I was thinking that at my age I shouldn’t have to deal with stuff like this. I felt free to walk away and say in my mind some version of, “I’m done with you.”

I was also feeling very weighed down by the fact that I am not living up to my expectations for myself. My job at school asks more of me than I can give. Teaching was like that, too. I had a dream vision of what it meant to be a teacher, and I was never able to fully realize that dream vision—not by a long shot. I feel the say way as an instructional coach. I fall short every day. Again, I think to myself, “I don’t need this!”

And of course, there is always my marriage. This new dynamic of caring for a brain-injured Tom is hard. He and I have many happy moments and joys in life, and at the same time, I have moments when the voice inside me shows me all the ways Tom falls short in meeting my exceptions—unintentionally, of course. I also see how I fail him, regularly. “I don’t need this!”

Then one morning, as I was thinking about my automatic response—“I don’t need this!”—I countered that phrase with a startling retort: “I do need this!”

Perhaps because I have pondered so often the contradictions in the Christian faith, this counter-phrase came to me. I began to think more about it. Maybe I really need this person, or this overwhelming challenge at work, or this deep call to love my husband. Maybe this is my road in discipleship, laid out lovingly by Christ to show me His way—because His ways that are higher than my ways. (Is. 55:8-9)

His ways. Learning to forgive, to put aside judgment, and to seek more to understand than to be understood, as St. Francis prayed. Learning to be weak and vulnerable and to depend on God in my work—to say to God, “My life is in Your service. Show me how to prioritize and how to be faithful in the small things with great love.” Lastly, learning to receive the gift of my life with Tom. We always desired a pure love for one another, and I believe these circumstances are the means to that end.

I need this. I need that. And I need His grace in it all.