Rethinking what has really happened when I say God is blessing us
More than once I’ve spoken about how God has blessed us on this journey. Again and again, I’ve seen how our life these months, though often difficult, could have been much more challenging.
For example, Friday a new resident moved in across the hall from Evelyn, and in just the one hour I was visiting, I heard her repeatedly telling the aides and nurses she wouldn’t be there long, asking them when her daughter would return to get her.
Never once did we face anything like that. Not one time has Evelyn asked about leaving or complained about my not visiting enough. She’s been settled and content there from Day One. It’s a blessing.
And I could add many others.
Counting my blessings
Faithful friends visit her, even though all they get from the experience is the feeling they’ve done the right thing or the satisfaction of coaxing a smile or seeing her enjoy a treat they bring. I’m more grateful for their efforts than Evelyn is. At least it seems that way to me.
She’s receiving good care where she lives, nothing at all like the horror stories of neglect I’ve heard about some facilities.
Tori took Evelyn outside for a little sunshine on a 60-degree day last week. “It’s so nice to be out here,” Evelyn said. (I didn’t hear one complete sentence from her when she and I visited earlier that day.)
My private-pay aides love Evelyn and patiently engage her in more ways than I’ve tried or could manage. She smiles when she sees them.
I participate with an online support group that has often been a lifeline, an hour each week I anticipate and enjoy.
Beyond that, I’ve received so, so much support from friends who spend time with me and overcome any insecurity I might entertain about being a “fifth wheel” with couples at a concert or a dinner.
Every week someone tells me they’re praying for Evelyn and me. And I can’t help but believe the peace we so often experience is a result of God’s calming influence in our spirits.
Considering what God has NOT done
And yet . . . and yet, I’m beginning to believe some of our situations these days are the result of something other than God’s specific action on my behalf.
For example, I don’t believe God sent Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s to our family to test us or teach us something or make us some sort of example to others because of how we’re handling it.
Yes, God is teaching me during this ordeal, and I pray he’ll use it all for his glory. I believe he can make something good out of bad, but that doesn’t mean he caused it.
I feel similarly about many of the positives in my life.
What if . . . ?
I think about how Evelyn would suffer if she were living with dementia in the rubble of Gaza or the air raid shelters of Ukraine. How would she cope in the chaos of Haiti, the favelas of Brazil, or in drafty, rat-infested ghettoes of a hundred different cities (some of them within easy driving distance from me)?
I am grateful, so very, very grateful that our suffering is small compared to the hopelessness in the hearts of so many millions around the world. I thank God for it all. But I don’t believe he caused it.
I don’t believe God picked me out and determined I would get a good education that paved the way for my satisfying career. Did God somehow decide I should live a comfortable upper middle-class life while others struggle in poverty? I don’t believe that.
If I believed his finger pushed me into a safe community with reliable police protection, functioning sewer systems, and dependable electricity; if I thought he protected my pension and 401k from default so my retirement could be secure; if I decided God selected me for a standard of living above what most of the world experiences, what would I tell the person living in rags on dirt floors in Indian villages or African slums? Does God really want less for them than he chose for me?
I don’t think so. And so I’ve decided some of the good in my life should receive a label besides “blessing.”
I’ll call it privilege.
Pondering my privilege
I thank God for my privilege, for the influences and examples surrounding me that prodded me toward self-sufficiency. Because everyone in my circle expected it, I studied. I worked. I earned. I saved. It’s what my family and friends and neighbors did.
I’ll readily concede that responsible stewardship of my privilege has contributed to my good life. But I don’t believe God caused my privilege any more than I believe he caused the diseases debilitating Evelyn’s days and moving me to tears in lonely nights. He has allowed it all. Now he waits for me to decide what I’ll do with it and whether I’ll let him work through it.
As I ponder how to cope with a life upended because Evelyn is sick, I must also determine how best to use my abundance for living a life that serves her and pleases God.
What a privilege! And I’m seeking God’s wisdom not to squander it.