I Never Expected to Be the Parent

Part 1 of the "The Long Goodbye" series for those caring for aging parents

I have sat across from enough people in my years of pastoral ministry to recognize the look.

It is not grief exactly — though grief is part of it. It is not frustration, though that is in there too. It is something closer to disorientation. A quiet bewilderment that says: I did not see this coming, and I am not sure I know how to do this, and I am not sure anyone around me understands how hard it actually is.

It is the look of someone who has just realized they have become a parent.

There is a particular kind of disorientation that comes with this season of life. You are still very much someone's child. You carry their voice in your head, their habits in your hands, their faith — or their wounds — somewhere deep in your chest. And yet the person who once drove you to school and held the world steady is now asking you to hold it for them.

The role reversal is real. And it is strange. And almost no one talks about how strange it is.

You may be managing their medications now. Making calls on their behalf. Driving them to appointments, sitting in waiting rooms, translating what the doctor said into words they can hold onto. You may be making decisions you never imagined making — about their home, their finances, their safety, their care. And underneath all of it there is a feeling you cannot quite name. Something between love and grief and obligation and tenderness and exhaustion, all at once.

That feeling has a name. It is called caring for your parents. And it is one of the hardest things a person can do.

Proverbs 23:22 says simply: Listen to your father who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when she is old.

It is a short verse. Easy to read past. But sit with that last phrase for a moment — when she is old. The writer knew. He knew that age changes people. That the parent you are caring for today may not be quite the parent you grew up with. Honoring them in this season would require something different, something costlier, than honoring them was when you were young.

To honor someone when they are old — when they are forgetful, or frail, or frightened, or difficult — is not the same as honoring them at their best. It is harder. And quieter. And it rarely gets the recognition it deserves.

But God sees it. Every phone call. Every appointment. Every moment you chose patience when you had nothing left to be patient with. He sees it, and it counts.

If you are in this season right now, I want you to hear this clearly: what you are doing is not just caregiving. It is a profound act of love. It is honoring the life that was given to you by tending to the person who gave it. It is costly and unglamorous, and some days it will bring you to your knees.

But you are not alone in it. There is a God who walks into hard seasons with His people — not around them, not ahead of them, but with them, right in the middle of the weight.

He is with you in the waiting room. He is with you in the difficult conversations. He is with you in the strange, sacred, exhausting work of becoming the one who holds things steady for someone who once held them steady for you.

You did not expect to be here. But grace meets you here anyway.

One thing to do today: Give yourself permission to name what you are feeling — not just to God, but to yourself. Write it down if that helps. You do not have to fix it or resolve it. Just acknowledge it honestly: This is hard. I did not expect this. And I am doing it anyway. That is enough. That is faithful.

Next week: "The Guilt That Never Fully Goes Away" — why caregivers carry so much guilt, and what grace has to say to the person who feels like they are never doing enough.