When We Rest

Photo from Pixabay on Pexels.

She leaned on the bed and wept as her husband took his final breath. 

The last several years had been brutal. She hadn’t loved him less—they’d been together for decades—but love didn’t fold the day’s fourth load of laundry or care for him through another tearful and sleepless night or go to work exhausted to pay the bills once covered by his paycheck.

Caretaking is grueling and relentless, no matter how much one loves the person who no longer resembles the soul they had fallen in love with.

His personality had ebbed, almost imperceptibly at first. His interests and hobbies had narrowed. Conversations grew superficial and difficult. He couldn’t be left alone—which meant she never enjoyed a moment alone, a moment of peace or quiet or rest.

As his needs increased, her world contracted. She buried her father, then her mother, then her daughter. She gave up her job, then her outside interests. Sometimes, the burden led to frustration and flashes of resentment. And, when hope waned, the only thing left was a devastating crush of undeserved guilt for wanting a reprieve.

When he left, a rush of wind passed through her. It cleansed, exhilarated, renewed, and encouraged her, rippling through every cell, tingling, reverberating, healing. It felt like an infinite and instantaneous acknowledgement of all she had done, a tender affectionate thank you. An inner knowing whispered, “He took the burden with him.”

When the end is near—or sometimes when it’s not so near—our loved ones may not be able to express or reciprocate the love we offer. But they quietly register it somewhere deep in their souls. And they return it in ways we can scarcely conceive.