When caregiving is sweet, exhausting, and more honest than quiet
Scripture Passage — Psalm 46:10, NRSV
Be still and know that I am God!
Devotional Reflection
By Day 3, the visit had stopped feeling like a sweet little break in my routine.
It was still sweet.
But it was also bruises on the back of my arm, coffee made too early, and a two-year-old who woke up unhappy before I was ready to be awake.
My granddaughter is still with me because her other Grandma is very ill, and her mom needs to be there. So I am here, doing what Grammys do. Making toast. Finding cups. Picking up toys. Answering tiny demands. Trying to keep the house calm while the adults carry the heavier part of the story.
This morning started early.
Too early.
The kind of early where your body is still asking for sleep, but a toddler has already decided the day has begun. She was not miserable exactly, but she was not happy either. Everything felt slightly wrong to her. The cup was wrong. The food was wrong. Being put down was wrong. Being picked up was also somehow wrong.
I stood in the kitchen trying to make coffee with one part patience, one part prayer, and one part “Lord, please help me not react out of tiredness.”
Then she reached for my arm.
She has this little way of calming herself. She finds the soft part at the back of my upper arm, near my triceps, and gently pinches it between her fingers. Not hard. Not mean. She isn’t trying to hurt me.
It relaxes her.
Her tiny fingers go there when she is tired, unsure, or needing closeness. It is one of those toddler comforts that makes perfect sense to her little body.
But this morning, I noticed the small bruises.
They were not huge. They were not alarming. But they were there.
Little marks on my skin from being needed over and over again.
I looked at them while the coffee brewed, and I started doing what I often do. I explained my own discomfort away.
She is only two.
She doesn’t mean it.
She is trying to feel safe.
Her mom is going through enough.
Her other Grandma is very ill.
This will pass.
All of that was true.
But my arm still hurt a little.
And I was still tired.
That is the part of caregiving I don’t always know how to say without feeling guilty. I can love her with my whole heart and still need a minute. I can understand why she needs comfort and still gently move her hand. I can be grateful to help and still wish the morning had started later.
Psalm 46:10 says, Be still, and know that I am God!
That verse sounds peaceful until you are trying to be still with a toddler who woke up cranky, coffee that keeps cooling, and family worry sitting heavy in the background.
Today, being still did not mean silence.
It meant taking a breath before I spoke.
It meant moving her little hand and saying, “Soft hands, sweetheart.”
It meant giving her something else to squeeze.
It meant holding her close without letting my body become the place where all her stress landed.
It meant whispering the most honest prayer I had:
“Lord, help me be gentle without disappearing.”
Personal Reflection
I used to think love meant absorbing everything quietly.
The mood.
The need.
The stress.
The tiredness.
The little hurts.
I thought if someone else had it harder, then I had no right to admit something was hard for me too.
But this morning, God met me in a very ordinary place.
Not at a desk with my Bible open.
Not in a long quiet prayer.
In the kitchen, with coffee brewing, a toddler fussing, and my hand rubbing the small bruises on my arm.
I looked at my granddaughter and felt tenderness for her. She is little. Her routine is different. Her mom is away because she needs to be with her own mother. This child does not understand the illness, the worry, or the adult conversations happening around her.
She only knows Grammy is here.
She only knows she wants comfort.
So I softened.
But I did not disappear.
I picked her up. I held her. I redirected her fingers. I gave her something soft to squeeze. I reminded myself that love can be gentle and clear at the same time.
That is growth for me.
Not perfect patience. Not a calm voice every single second. Not a morning where I floated through caregiving like some saint with warm coffee and endless energy.
Real growth.
The kind where I notice my body before I snap. The kind where I tell God the truth instead of pretending I am fine. The kind where I can love the person in front of me without ignoring what is happening inside me.
That feels like stillness today.
Not quiet.
Not easy.
But stillness in the middle of the room.
Stillness while the toddler needs me.
Stillness while the phone could ring with news.
Stillness while the toast crumbs scatter and the toys spread and the coffee waits.
Stillness that says, “God, I cannot control this whole day. But I can be here. Help me be here with love.”
Journaling Prompts
- Where am I being needed right now, and what is it costing me emotionally or physically?
- What honest sentence do I need to say to God today?
- Where do I need to be gentle without disappearing?
- What does stillness look like in the middle of my real life, not the life I wish I had today?
- How can I offer love while also respecting my own limits?
Call to Connection
I don’t know what is leaving marks on you today.
Mine are small bruises from tiny fingers that were only trying to feel safe.
Yours may not be visible. It may be the tiredness of caregiving, the weight of family illness, the early morning responsibility, the quiet worry you carry while still doing what needs to be done.
God sees the love.
He also sees the tiredness.
You are allowed to bring Him both.
Today, I am learning that stillness is not pretending nothing hurts. It is letting God meet me honestly, right in the middle of what is tender, tiring, and real.
Closing Prayer
Lord,
This morning began before I was ready.
I am grateful to help, but I am tired too. Help me stop pretending those two things cannot exist together.
Please comfort my granddaughter while her world feels different. Be near to her mom as she sits with her very ill mother. Bring peace, mercy, and strength into that room.
Help me love well today.
Give me patience when the morning feels too loud. Give me wisdom to know when to hold close and when to gently redirect. Help me be soft without disappearing.
Teach me how to be still with You, even here.
Amen.
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