27: Love Them Anyway

Written by Denisa Nica

It’s hard to watch someone you love go through something you wish you could change.

And sometimes it’s just as hard to watch them make choices you wish they’d make differently. We want to help, and we have ideas about what might make things better. And when nothing changes, it’s difficult to know what to do with all that worry. How do we keep loving someone when we can’t make things better for them?

This week, with a little help from Stephanie Duncan Smith’s Even After Everything, we’re making room for that question and considering what love might look like when the answers aren’t ours to give. Listen in.

Links + Resources From This Episode:

Find Denisa Elsewhere:

  • I’m Denisa Nica, and welcome to Walking Anyway. You’re listening to episode 27.

    This is a podcast about living faithfully in uncertain seasons, when life feels unclear and nothing is quite settling yet. If you’re not quite sure how to move through this in a way that feels steady and true, you’re in the right place to keep walking anyway. Each week I offer a reflection and a gentle way to help you live faithfully, one ordinary step at a time.

    I’m an author and spiritual director, and the founder of The Table—an online spiritual formation community shaped by a weekly rhythm, where women practice this kind of faithful living together, at their own pace, in the middle of their real lives and faith.

    I live in Spain, where life moves a little slower, and that has changed the way I pay attention and the way I live inside my own life.

    So today, after a phone conversation with my mom and some time spent rereading a book that’s becoming one of my favorites, I thought we’d talk about what happens when we love someone very much, have some rather strong opinions about what’s best for them, and discover that they may not be particularly interested in those opinions.

    And what do we do with all that worry, and all that love, when we can’t quite figure out how to help? Listen in.

    I was talking with my mom on the phone the other day when she mentioned she wasn't feeling well.

    Now, my mom is in her seventies, and she has some health concerns that mean she needs to be quite careful about how much she takes on physically. So naturally, I started asking questions. What happened? How long had she been feeling this way? What had she been doing?

    And as she told me about her day, I learned that she'd been doing something physically demanding. Something she'd volunteered to do for someone else, even though nobody had asked her. And now she wasn’t well.

    By this point in the conversation, I was feeling pretty worried about her. And I was frustrated, too, because this wasn't the first time.

    My mom has always been someone who wants to help. And while I love that about her, there are things her body can't manage the way it once did, and I wish she'd take that into account before offering to do something that might be too much for her.

    So there I was, on the phone, asking more questions and trying to understand what had happened and how bad she was. Meanwhile, she was alone at home in Romania, not feeling well, and I was in Spain.

    Now, if you've listened to this podcast for more than five minutes, you probably know that a couple of years ago, after more than two decades in Canada, we moved to Spain.

    There were several reasons for that move, but one of them was my parents. After the pandemic, as they were getting older, I didn't want an ocean between us anymore.

    Spain and Romania aren't exactly next door, but they're certainly closer than Vancouver and Romania. And I wanted that. I wanted to know I could get to my parents more easily if they needed me.

    But being closer doesn't mean I can protect them from everything. Even if I'd been sitting right beside my mother that day, I couldn't have made that decision for her.

    And I think that’s why I get so frustrated sometimes. I just want her to take care of herself, to recognize when something is too much for her. Because really, I want my mom around for as long as possible. I want us to have more time together.

    I can tell her I'm concerned, I can offer help, and I can keep showing up in all the ways I can and know how, but I can't guarantee that she'll be okay.

    And I wanted to share this with you this week, partly because of that conversation with my mom, but also because of a book I've recently returned to.

    It's called Even After Everything, by Stephanie Duncan Smith. I first read it when it came out a couple of years ago, and it's becoming one of my favourite books.

    And there are two things I particularly love about this book. First, the subtitle: The Spiritual Practice of Knowing the Risks and Loving Anyway. I mean, isn’t that a brilliant subtitle? If someone has something to say about how to do that, I definitely want to read it.

    And the other thing I love is that Stephanie gives us room to be honest about what’s changed, what we’ve lost, and the life we’re actually living, without insisting that every difficult thing has to become a lesson or a gift.

    And I appreciate that because I think we're often in a hurry to make something good out of what hurts. Especially those of us who are Christians. We do love a good redemption story, preferably with a clear lesson and a Scripture reference at the end. We want to understand why something happened, what we're supposed to learn from it, or how we're going to move forward.

    As I was rereading Even After Everything, I kept thinking about the people we love and how little control we sometimes have over what happens to them.

    We can care deeply, do everything we know to do, and still not be able to make things better. And really, that's the question I wanted to bring to you this week. How do we keep loving someone when we can't make things better for them?

    Okay, I know, this is a massive subject. We could probably spend the next twelve episodes talking about it and still have plenty left to say.

    It's also something that comes up often around The Table, the online spiritual formation community I host, and in one-on-one conversations around my work.

    So well keep things fairly simple. I thought we could look at this through three different windows. Just three ways of looking at the same question that have been helpful to me.

    And please know, I’m right in the middle of learning this myself. As you can probably tell from that conversation with my mom, I haven’t exactly figured it all out. But these are a few things I’m paying attention to, and I thought they might be helpful for you, too.

    The first, is to notice what’s happening in us. The second is to receive the person in front of us, and the third is to ask what love looks like when nothing changes.

    And as we talk about these things, I hope someone in your own life comes to mind, and that you find something here that’s helpful for you, too.

    So let's start with that first one. Notice what's happening in you.

    When someone we love is struggling, our attention naturally goes toward them. We want to know how they're doing, what happened, whether there's something we can do to help. And of course we do, we love them.

    But there's often quite a lot happening in us at the same time.

    We might be feeling worried or frightened. We might be frustrated, or even angry, especially if we've had the same conversation many times before. Or perhaps we're exhausted because we've been carrying this concern for a long time.

    And then there are all the questions we ask ourselves. Have I done enough? Should I call again? Did I say the wrong thing? Is there something I haven't thought of? And perhaps the hardest question of all: Have I somehow failed them?

    I think most of us know what it’s like to finish a difficult conversation and then replay it in our heads for the next four days. And of course, somewhere around day three, we finally come up with exactly what we should have said.

    Or we start wondering whether we should have said anything at all.

    And I think that’s part of what makes loving people so complicated. We’re worried about what they’re going through, but we’re also dealing with our own fear, frustration, and sometimes guilt. And it’s not always easy to tell where one ends and the other begins. Both are real,  but they're not quite the same thing.

    And I don't particularly enjoy feeling helpless - I like being useful, being the person who knows what to do. And when I can't do anything, I'm not always sure what to do with myself.

    So I start looking for something. Another question to ask, a suggestion to offer, or another conversation to have.

    And this is also where it gets a little tricky, because sometimes we really do need to do something. We need to make the call, have the conversation, help someone find the care they need.

    Other times, we've already done those things, and we're still looking for something else to do because sitting with the uncertainty is just too uncomfortable.

    And I don't always know which is which, especially in the moment.

    And so it happens…I start taking care of something that isn't entirely mine to take care of. And of course, before long, I'm doing a lot more than anyone asked me to do.

    Overfunctioning, anyone?

    So I've been learning to ask myself a question before I offer another suggestion. It’s this: Am I responding to what this person needs right now, or am I trying to make myself feel a little less helpless?

    It's a useful question, especially before offering the same advice for the fourth time.

    And that brings me to listening. Which is a little embarrassing, considering what I do for a living.

    Because I'm a spiritual director. I'm actually trained to listen to people. I even have a certificate to prove it. You would think that would come in handy in all my relationships, and then, I get on the phone with my mother, and suddenly I seem to have all the answers.

    In spiritual direction, I'm called to listen without deciding ahead of time where a conversation needs to go. I'm listening for what's happening in someone's life with God. And I'm paying attention to myself, too, because sometimes I have a perfectly good question that doesn't need to be asked. At least not yet.

    But it's different when it's someone I love. I know their history, I remember what happened last time, and, well, I have opinions. Before I know it, I'm listening for the opportunity to say what I think, rather than listening to understand what the person is actually telling me.

    And sometimes I've spent so much time trying to understand why someone keeps doing something, that I've forgotten to ask how they're actually doing.

    I catch myself doing this with my daughter. She’ll call and mention that she’s tired, and before I know it, I’m asking all sorts of questions. What time did you go to bed last night? Did you sleep well? Did you have breakfast? Are you getting sick? I mean, the poor girl just said she was tired. And I’ve practically started a medical consultation.

    And yes, I want to know these things. I’m her mom. I’ll probably still be asking whether she’s eaten when she’s fifty.

    But I’m trying to remember that we can also just talk. Tell each other something funny, share what’s happened that day, you know, enjoy a few minutes together. And she can be tired. She’s allowed to be tired. I don’t have to investigate every time. It doesn't mean we have to agree with their choices or pretend everything is fine. And it doesn't mean avoiding a conversation we genuinely need to have. But it does mean, remaining curious about them.

    Even people we've known for decades still have thoughts and experiences we may not fully understand.

    And perhaps we don't need to make sense of everything they're doing before we can listen to them.

    There's a line in Romans 12 where Paul writes, "Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep."

    That second part sounds simple enough, until we're the ones sitting with someone who's hurting.

    And I’m saying this because I don't always want to weep with someone. I want to help them stop weeping.

    There are moments when there actually is something practical we can do. Someone may need medical attention, a meal, a ride, or help finding support. But other times, the problem isn't going away. At least not today.

    And what the person needs is someone who can bear to hear how difficult things are without immediately trying to make the conversation more encouraging.

    Someone who can listen without needing to find an answer before the conversation ends. I think about how often we say, "I don't know what to say," as though that means we have nothing to offer.

    But what if we don't always need something to say?

    We can ask a question and listen to the answer. We can acknowledge that something is terribly hard. And we can remember that the person in front of us has a whole life beyond this thing we're worried about.

    Now, of course, there are times when we need to speak up. Or set a boundary. Or recognize that someone needs more help than we can give them.

    I’m not suggesting we just sit there and listen when something really needs to be done. But in the ordinary, complicated work of loving people, I think we sometimes underestimate what it means to be with someone.

    But here’s what I find difficult. Even when I’ve listened, even when I’ve been there for someone, I still want things to get better for them. I want the next phone call to bring some good news. I want to hear that they’re feeling better, that something has worked out, that things are finally looking up.

    And sometimes that happens. Which is wonderful. But sometimes the next phone call sounds a lot like the last one.I think that’s where this gets especially hard

    And that brings us to our third window: What does love look like when nothing changes?

    Let's say we've noticed what's happening in us. We've tried to listen well. We've offered help where we can, had the difficult conversation, prayed. And things are still difficult. The person we love is still struggling. The illness hasn't improved, or perhaps they've made the same poor decision again, despite everything we've talked about. What do we do then?

    I think this is where we can become discouraged. Especially when we've been walking alongside someone for a long time. We start wondering what else we could possibly say. We feel tired of offering the same encouragement. Sometimes we even find ourselves dreading the next conversation, and then feeling guilty about that.

    And sometimes we need someone to listen to us, too. Not because the other person's suffering has become about us, but because loving someone through something difficult can be difficult for us as well.

    And I think there’s some grief in that, too. We grieve the things we wanted for the people we love. Their health. Their happiness. A different future. An easier life than the one they’re living. And it’s hard to admit that we may not be able to give them those things.

    In Galatians 6, Paul tells us to bear one another's burdens. But just a few verses later, he also speaks about each person carrying their own load.

    I've always found those two instructions interesting together.

    Paul seems to be holding two things together. We really are responsible for one another. And each of us also has a life before God that no one else can live for us.

    Knowing how to live with both of those truths isn't always easy. There may be responsibilities that genuinely belong to us. A practical need we can meet, a difficult conversation we need to have, a way of protecting someone who's vulnerable. Sometimes love means asking for help ourselves, or recognizing that a boundary is necessary. But there are also things we cannot do for another person, however much we love them.

    We can help someone find care, but we can't guarantee healing. We can tell someone what concerns us, but we can't always make them choose differently.

    And we can pray for someone faithfully, for decades, without knowing how their story will turn out.

    I think that's one of the places where trusting God can become difficult for all of us.

    Because we believe God loves the people we love. We believe his care for them reaches far beyond anything we can do. But we would still very much like to know that they're going to be okay. Preferably in advance.

    And Christian faith doesn't give us that kind of guarantee.

    Think about the friend who keeps visiting someone through a long illness. Or the person who listens to the same grief without asking for a more encouraging update.

    They may not be able to change what's happening. And they may never know whether something they said made a difference.

    But I don't think that makes their care meaningless.

    Sometimes we get to see what our love has accomplished. And that's wonderful.

    Other times, we simply don't know.

    I don't want to pretend that's easy. Especially when we care deeply about someone and would give almost anything to see their circumstances change.

    But perhaps love doesn't always need to produce a result we can see. Love may just be offering what we genuinely can, while accepting that we cannot decide how another person's story will unfold.

    And I wonder who comes to mind for you as we've been talking.

    Maybe for you, it's an aging parent whose health is becoming more fragile. Or an adult child who's making choices you wish they wouldn't make. Maybe it's a friend who's going through a difficult time, and you're running out of things to say.

    Or perhaps it's someone you love who's facing something none of you can change, no matter how hard you try.

    For me, it’s my mom. And if I’m honest, it’s my dad, too. My adult daughter, who lives in another country. And my husband, who’s twelve years older than I am.

    I think about all of them when I think about this question.I want my parents to take better care of themselves. I want my daughter to be well and happy. And I would very much like to have another fifty years with my husband, thank you very much.I know. I’m asking for quite a lot.

    But there’s some grief in loving people, too. Knowing that time is passing, that life can change, and that we can’t protect each other from everything.

    And I don’t want to spend so much time worrying about what might happen that I miss the time we have together now. I’m still learning how to do that.

    I wonder who you’ve been thinking about as we’ve talked today. Maybe there’s someone you love whose circumstances you wish you could change. Someone you’ve been worried about, or praying for, or trying to help. I don’t know what that looks like in your life, but perhaps there’s one question worth taking with you into your next conversation with them.

    What might love look like here, even if nothing changes soon?

    It may be something practical. It may be an honest conversation, a little more listening, or recognizing a limit. I don't know what that will look like for you.

    But I hope you’ll remember that even when you can’t make things better for someone you love, it doesn’t mean you have nothing left to offer.

    Tis can be something we can learn to practice. Loving people through the things we can’t change. Bringing our worries to God. Asking for help when we need it. And learning, sometimes very slowly, to trust him with the people we love.

    The spiritual practice of loving them anyway. Thanks for listening to episode 27.

    I hope this little practice of noticing what’s happening in us, listening to the people we love, and learning to trust God with what we cannot change helps you keep loving well, even when you can’t make things better.

    If there’s something in your life you keep coming back to—a conversation, a decision, a relationship, or something you wish were different—I have a free guide for you called What Do I Do With This?

    I made it for those moments when you care deeply, but you’re not quite sure what faithfulness looks like. It gives you a practical way to work through one real situation in your own life, without assuming you have to figure everything out or make everything better. You can find it in the show notes.

    And if someone has been on your mind as we’ve talked today, and you find yourself carrying a lot of worry or questions about how to love them well, I hope you have someone you can talk to about that, too.

    Maybe that’s a good friend, a pastor, or a spiritual director. Someone who can listen and pray with you without feeling they have to make everything better.

    Spiritual direction can be one of those places. A space to slow down, pay attention to what’s happening in your own life with God, and have someone listen alongside you.

    And if you’d like to explore that together, I’d love to hear from you. I’ll leave a way to get in touch in the show notes.

    Before you go, can I ask you a small favor? If you’ve been enjoying Walking Anyway, would you consider leaving a rating or a short review? It really does help more people discover the podcast, and I’d be so grateful.

    You might also know someone who’s carrying a lot of worry for a parent, a child, a spouse, or a friend. Someone who’s trying their best to help and wondering whether they’re doing enough. Perhaps this is an episode you could pass along to them.

    Or maybe it’s one you’d like to save for yourself, for a day when loving someone feels especially hard and you need to hear some of these things again.

    Thank you for helping these conversations reach others.

    And before we finish, I just want to say thank you for being here.

    A few of you have told me that these Tuesday episodes have become a little bit of companionship in your week. And I can’t tell you how much that means to me.

    Oh, and here’s a little something I hadn’t planned on sharing, but I think you’ll enjoy it. We’re now listening together from 28 countries and 175 cities around the world. Isn’t that something?

    I love imagining where you might be listening. Maybe you’re out walking, driving somewhere, making dinner, or taking a little break in your day. All these different places and different lives, and somehow we get to spend a little time together each Tuesday.

    I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m grateful that we get to keep walking together, anyway.

    I’ll leave you with these words from Stephanie Duncan Smith, in her book Even After Everything: “The promise has never been smooth nor safe passage. The divine promise is presence.”

    Thanks for listening. I’ll be here with you next time.

Download the transcript
 
Back to all episodes
Denisa Nica
Next

26: A Year Around The Table