There are days I find joy in giving to my mother, running her errands, cleaning, paying bills, ministering to her.
Other days, not so much.
Some days I feel resentment.
But resentment debilitates, undermines, subjugates.
I guard my heart.
Some days I think of Evan Mettie, a young man like many, severely injured by an I.E.D. in Iraq.
He lives in a bed in an extension to his parent's home. He will be there until his parents are gone.
They are fortunate they were able to bring him home.
But for the rest of their lives they live with the reality that their son is disabled, unable to fulfill their early hopes for him.
I think of spouses whose partner is ill.
Parents with young children with cancer or cerebral palsy.
I could believe my story is meaningless.
I could be silenced.