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​Taking Care of My Mother

Process Theology and Caregiving
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​​​“Sometimes I just sit beside her quietly. I hold her hand, or I don’t. I listen to her breathe. I don’t always know what to say, or what she needs. But I’m there. And somehow, that’s enough. Not because I’ve solved anything—but because presence itself is a kind of love."

I never thought I’d spend this season of my life sitting in a small room with my mother, who no longer remembers my name. At first, the grief of that hit me like a wave every time I walked into the nursing home. I wanted to fix it, make it better, somehow bring her back. But process theology gave me something else—a deeper way of seeing. It taught me that God isn’t some distant puppet master pulling strings, but a presence that lures us gently toward love, moment by moment.

​I started to see that just being with my mother, holding her hand, brushing her hair, even sitting silently beside her while she stared out the window—this, too, was love. Not flashy, not heroic. But real. God’s love, flowing through presence.

There’s a quiet holiness in these halls that I never expected. The staff here, they are the real heroes. They tend to my mother with a patience and gentleness that humbles me. I’ve seen them singing to residents who can no longer speak, bringing warm blankets in the middle of the night, holding a hand through a difficult moment without needing anything in return. It’s not glamorous work. It’s often thankless. But it’s sacred. Process theology has helped me see the divine not in the miracle of healing, but in the ongoing acts of compassion that stitch each day together. These caregivers show up with love when no one’s looking. They are midwives of dignity.

Some days are harder than others. There are moments when I ache for the mother I used to know. But I’ve stopped trying to fight the sadness or push it away. Instead, I let it wash over me, and I remember that even in this brokenness, there’s beauty. I’ve come to believe that God isn’t in the outcomes, but in the offering. And every time I sit beside her, every time I say her name—even if she doesn’t recognize it—I know that something holy is happening. The relationship hasn’t ended; it’s just changed shape. In the quiet moments, in the shared gaze or a simple touch, I still feel her presence meeting mine. Our bond continues—not through memory, but through love made visible in presence. That’s enough. That’s love.

A Sacred Calling

The people whom I admire most in life, who I think truly embody the meaning of life, are not those who are rich, powerful, or famous, or those who are smart, accomplished, and well-known...It is caregivers.

The ones I meet in nursing homes, hospitals, and unpretentious living rooms.

The daughter feeding her father soup with slow, steady hands.

The friend who shows up every day, without being asked.

The aide who changes linens with quiet dignity.

The spouse who still whispers “I love you” even when the words are no longer returned.
They aren’t seeking recognition. They aren’t chasing applause.

They are simply there—moment after moment, choice after choice—doing what love requires.

They are, in my eyes, the true philosophers, the true saints, the true artists of human life.

They are living what process theology teaches: that the meaning of life is not found in grand abstractions, but in presence, tenderness, and the sacredness of relationship.

Many Forms of Caregiving

​It might mean tending to a loved one with illness or dementia. It might be raising children, supporting a partner in crisis, walking with a friend through grief, or providing daily care for an aging parent.

It might be the work of a nurse, a home health aide, a hospice volunteer, or a neighbor who checks in faithfully.

Sometimes it’s official. Sometimes it’s unrecognized. Sometimes it’s shared. Sometimes it feels endless.

What unites all forms of caregiving is the steady offering of presence: showing up, again and again, in ways large or small, to support another living being in their vulnerability. It can be beautiful. It can be exhausting. Often, it’s both.

​Process theology offers a spiritual framework that honors the deep, moment-by-moment nature of caregiving. It does not promise certainty or control. Instead, it offers companionship—reminding us that we are part of a living, relational universe where each moment matters, and where we are never alone.

Here are fifteen insights from a process-relational perspective. You don’t need to take them all. Take what helps. Leave what doesn’t. You are already doing sacred work.

Tips for Caregivers

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1. Every Moment Matters.
   Not just the dramatic ones. A smile, a sip of tea, a shared silence—these small acts carry deep meaning. In process theology, the whole universe is made of moments like these.
2. God Is in the Caregiving
   God is not standing over you with a clipboard. God is within the caregiving itself—feeling with you, offering possibilities, and gently holding what you can no longer carry. And God is in the relationship, too. God is between you. 
3. It’s OK to Be Finite.
   You are not meant to be infinite. You have limits, and that’s not a weakness—it’s part of what makes you real. Process theology honors finitude as the condition for relationship, tenderness, and trust.
4. Take Care of Yourself, Too.
   You matter. Your rest, your meals, your small joys—these are not luxuries; they are sacred acts that sustain the caregiving path. You are a part of the healing, too.
5. Accept Help.
   You weren’t meant to do this alone. Let others support you. Let grace reach you through the kindness of a neighbor, a friend, or a stranger. Receiving is not defeat; it is a form of relationship.
6. Care Is Creative.
   There’s no script. You respond, improvise, adjust—day by day, sometimes hour by hour. This is not failure. This is love as art. You are co-creating the world through compassion.
7. Feelings Are Not Failures.
   You will feel overwhelmed, angry, resentful, sad—and then peaceful, then exhausted again. These emotions are not interruptions; they are part of the sacred terrain of caregiving.
8. The Future Is Open.
   Nothing is completely determined. Even in the hardest situations, fresh possibilities can arise: for comfort, for beauty, for a softening of spirit. Hope doesn’t erase pain—it grows within it.
9. You Are Not Alone.
   You are part of a wider web—of other caregivers, of the person you care for, of the more-than-human world, and of God. You are not a solitary struggler. You are surrounded, even if it’s hard to see.
10. Small Gestures Are Sacred.
    A warm blanket. A whispered word. A gentle touch on the arm. These acts may not seem like much, but they reverberate deeply. They are love made visible.
11. There’s No “Perfect” Way to Care.
    You will make mistakes. You’ll forget something. You’ll snap. That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human. There is grace in every imperfect offering.
12. Your Suffering Is Understood.
    In process theology, God feels all things. Your pain, your weariness, your despair—it is taken into the divine heart and remembered forever. You are not invisible.
13. Beauty Still Belongs.
    The caregiving space can be heavy, but it also deserves light. A flower in a jar. A favorite song. A shared meal. Let beauty in—it can nourish both of you.
14. You Are Becoming, Too.
    This journey is shaping you. You are not the same as you were before. Through the difficulty and the depth, something in you is becoming more whole, more compassionate, more real.
15. Love Is the Point.
    Not control. Not perfection. Just love—given, received, attempted, failed, tried again. Love is the through-line, the rhythm, the reason. And it is enough.

Caregiving and the Meaning of Life

In process theology, life is not about achievement or control. It is about relationship, experience, and the ongoing creative advance into novelty—the unfolding of beauty, connection, and value moment by moment.

Caregiving is one of the clearest ways human beings participate in this unfolding. It is not something on the edge of life’s meaning—it is life’s meaning. To care is to join with the sacred impulse of the universe itself: the impulse to nurture, to respond, to heal, to love.

Every act of caregiving, no matter how unnoticed, contributes to what Alfred North Whitehead called the consequent nature of God—the divine reality that lovingly receives and weaves together all the world’s joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures. In this vision, nothing is lost. Every gesture, every tear, every touch has eternal significance.
Caregiving is not a detour from a meaningful life. It is a meaningful life. It is a participation in the sacred work of sustaining one another—not in grand gestures, but in quiet, faithful attention to the needs of another being.

And if the universe is, at heart, a web of relationships…

And if God is the companion to every moment of care…

Then caregiving is not just a task. It is a calling, a path, a way of being human in a world that is held together, not by force or perfection, but by love.

Are you are caregiver? You are part of what makes the world whole.