This is a true story about my sister-in-law Patti whose husband Jim was recently diagnosed with dementia.
A dementia diagnosis changes the landscape of a marriage overnight. The familiar shore vanishes. Suddenly, you are standing on a stormy, unpredictable sea, wondering how you will survive.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus heals the sick, provides food for the masses, and then immediately packs off his twelve buddies in the boat. He asks the well-fed crowd to give him space so he can pray and get refueled by the Father. Meanwhile, the disciples are pushed off from the shore, physically drained and emotionally overstimulated.
As a caregiver spouse, you know this exact brand of exhaustion. Your days are filled with constant output—managing medications, answering repeated questions, and protecting his dignity. Like the disciples, you don’t get a victory lap. The exhausting day shift simply transitions into the night. You lie down in the dark with your muscles aching and your spirit entirely spent.
Hours into the night, the disciples found themselves trapped on the Sea of Galilee. For the ancients, water was the ultimate symbol of chaos, cosmic danger, and the unknown. We need it to live, but too much will kill us.
The disciples rowed for hours against a "contrary" wind that fought every stroke of their oars. In caregiving, this disease is that contrary wind. It fights against your routine, your patience, and your plans. By the "fourth watch" (between 3:00 AM and 6:00 AM), you often find yourself awake, dealing with his restlessness or sundowning, feeling the grueling physical weight of a job that never pauses.
In the pitch black, the waves look bigger and hope shrinks. If you constantly look ahead to the final stages of dementia, you will drown in anxiety. The unpredictability feels like an ocean that could swallow your marriage, your finances, and your health whole. You feel completely isolated in the dark. Your strength is found only in the present moment. Do not look at the lifetime of the disease; look only at the step right in front of you today.
In the wee small hours of the morning, Jesus calmly strolled out onto the volatile water to be with them. But his arrival didn't initially bring comfort; it brought terror. In their panic, the disciples assumed the figure was a ghost—a specter of death.
Fear blinds us. When you are drowning in caregiving stress, it is incredibly hard to see God in the room. You might look at your changing husband and feel like a ghost has replaced the man you married. The grief of losing pieces of him while he is still here can make the future look like an omen of death.
The disciples forgot the miracles they had seen just hours before. In the darkest moments of caregiving, it is normal to experience that same spiritual amnesia. Sinking is a normal part of the storm. When you hit your limit, do what Peter did when he panicked on the water: cry out for help.
Jesus did not wait for them to calm down before he spoke. His voice cut through the howling wind: "Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid." He brought peace because he had been in conversation with the Father. He had his eyes on the bigger picture. He wasn't afraid of human things—not of failure, embarrassment, poverty, or even death.
Jesus did what he came to do—he saved poor old Peter, just as he has come to save the rest of us from ourselves. He did not leave Peter to swim alone, and he does not leave you. Today, Christ reaches out to you through the hands of others—through a friend who brings a meal, a support group that listens, or a professional who offers respite care. Accepting help is not weakness; it is how you let Christ pull you back above the waves.
In your caregiving journey, those moments of stillness come in small, beautiful packages. It is the sudden quiet after a period of confusion. It is a moment where your husband looks at you with absolute recognition and smiles. In those quiet spaces, Christ sits in the boat with you, anchoring you in a love that dementia cannot change.
It’s easy for us to be like Peter in this story. Our challenge is to be like Jesus—to have such a strong core of love and faith that we can walk through the dark weirdness and confusion and still be able to reach a hand out to others.
Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who are caring for a dementia family member, neighbor, or friend. When the storm of this diagnosis feels too heavy, hold our eyes on You. Give us the courage to take this journey one single day at a time, and the humility to reach for Your hand when we begin to sink.
