Whether you are a primary, hands-on caregiver, or someone who is forced by geography or circumstance to manage the care of a loved one from afar, or you oversee the care provided by professionals in an institutional setting, you do the work of love when you do the work of duty. 

   For some, duty is a legal obligation. For others it is a moral obligation. For others duty is the sacred responsibility inherent in many relationships. Whether we respond to our duty gladly or reluctantly, the demands of duty recur every day like clockwork. Duty is a harsh, unforgiving taskmaster that regiments our life and always demands more. Unless we blatantly choose to neglect it, a sense of duty can be a persistent, compelling distraction in our day-to-day life.

   A few years after my husband died, I began to pray and think seriously about moving to a smaller home. It made little sense to maintain a house that was much too big for one person. After weighing the options, I found a condominium in a newer building convenient to my work, neighborhood services, and church. I closed the deal, hired a contractor, and began the months-long process of renovation needed before I could move in.

   Though my mother had been in decline for several years I was her sole caregiver. Later I managed her care team. Her condition accelerated at about the same time that I was preparing to move. The crisis came late one afternoon when the call came that my mother had fallen. I dropped everything and went into crisis mode to ensure her care and comfort at this turning point in her life.

   In the remaining months and weeks before she died, I was awash not only in duty, but also in distractions. My life seems frayed and off balance. The distractions of duty sapped my physical and emotional strength. The demands of duty drove a wedge into my spiritual being. I chased order and peace, yet there was no predictable rhythm to life. I felt as though I was idling in neutral, going nowhere—not forward, not backward. It seemed impossible to keep up with the demands of constant adjustment to circumstances beyond my control. I needed more hours than just the regulation twenty-four to keep my head above the water line.  

   When we are in caregiver/survival mode, we put others first and ourself last. Often we neglect our own self-care because we are focused on the distractions of duty. When one we love dies, for a while we may be forced to do an end run around grief. We prioritize what is necessary and vital—caring for our children and family, dealing with the business of death, making wise, timely decisions.Yet it is impossible to ignore grief in the hope that someday it will run its course and go away. Grief insists that we find the undistracted time and space needed to look inward. Grief urges us to confront and express our feelings. Grief encourages us to cry, to mourn, and be sad. Grief is a time to attend to our mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. Grief is a deep personal experience of the heart, one that precludes both duty and distraction.

   How do we access this private, personal place of grief when we are distracted by duty and life going on around us? We put down the phone, turn off the radio and television, block the loud messaging of social media, and listen to what silence has to say to us—at home, in the car, at work, or in a crowded train, bus, or subway.

   Our soul is a singular space for personal reflection and introspection. It is available to us any time, any place, in any circumstance. When we lay down our duty and distraction for a while, we find the stillness needed to retreat into ourself and discover our inmost being. We need quiet to think, to sort out our feelings, and experience our pain. We need quiet if we are to understand and reconcile our experience of death to the reality of life in the here and now.

   We are not superhuman. We care for ourselves when we ask for help. Sometimes we simply cannot do everything ourself. When others offer help and really mean it, it is the better part of self-care to delegate our duties for a while and allow others to minister to us. A momentary reprieve from duty allows us to enjoy the blessings of solitude and silence. According to Henri Nouwen, “Solitude, where we absent ourselves from the myriad voices that tell us otherwise, helps us hear again that voice of love.”    

   When we seek respite from the distractions of duty, we better hear the voice of God. Through the power and presence of the Holy Spirit, God speaks comfort and peace to our soul, “Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times in all ways” (2 Thessalonians 3:16).

In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.
Isaiah 30:15 NKJV