In this special Valentine's Day episode of Hope for the Caregiver, I share what it means to carry love when the person you cherish can no longer carry it back in the same way. I talk about relaunching our local caregiver support group after a long pause, about sitting alone in an empty room before anyone showed up, and why caregivers need a place where they are understood. I reflect on decorating Gracie's hospital bed through one holiday after another, and why sometimes it's okay to buy your own Valentine's card as a tribute to a love that is still very real. I also address the shallow theology that collapses under the weight of suffering and remind fellow caregivers that our hope must be anchored in Scripture, not sentiment. I close by singing "I Will Sing of My Redeemer," because even when our hearts are breaking, we can still sing — and that song carries us.

I've spent much of my life in hospitals and ICUs, standing beside suffering that doesn't resolve and prayers that don't wrap up neatly. After a while, explanations stop helping.

In this episode, I reflect on what has steadied me as a caregiver when nothing can be fixed. I talk about walking into yet another surgery knowing exactly how hard it will be, about learning what real comfort sounds like when fear is louder than reason, and about why old hymns and familiar Scripture matter more than new words in those moments.

This is not about solutions or spiritual shortcuts. It's a reflection from the long middle, for caregivers who have learned that hope doesn't always arrive with answers, but it does arrive with company.

In today's episode of Hope for the Caregiver, I begin with a reality caregivers understand instinctively: disruption rarely announces itself, and caregivers are often the ones who absorb the impact first. From ice storms devastating the Southeast to wildfire threats here in Montana, I reflect on how quickly normal life can unravel. For caregivers living close to the edge, preparation is not fear-driven living. It is stewardship. When power fails, routines collapse, and recovery stretches on far longer than expected, caregivers are often the ones holding everything together.

From there, I turn to a sobering cultural moment: the coordinated disruption of a church service in Minneapolis. This was not spontaneous protest or isolated behavior. It involved planning, agreement, and coordinated action, and that distinction matters. When sacred spaces are deliberately disrupted, we are no longer debating policy. We are testing whether restraint still exists and whether consequences still matter. Silence in moments like this is not neutrality. It is assent.

I then connect this moment to what caregivers already know through lived experience. Families navigating addiction, mental illness, and chronic volatility understand how quickly situations can escalate when emotions are raw and trust is thin. Caregivers survive by learning vigilance, establishing boundaries, and refusing to respond with panic or bravado. Scripture does not train us for theatrics. It trains us for endurance, clarity, and steadiness shaped by truth.

In the final segment, I introduce our hymn of the week, "The Joy of the Lord," drawn from Nehemiah 8, and share a brief excerpt from a recording close to my heart. Biblical joy is not denial or emotional escape. It is strength rooted in the presence of God, especially when lives feel shaken and must be rebuilt from the rubble. I invite listeners to hear the full song on Spotify and other streaming platforms and to let it minister beyond this program.

This episode is about preparedness without panic, vigilance without fear, and the kind of calm that is possible not because the threats are small, but because God is not. For caregivers, and for the church, endurance still matters. Truth still steadies. Hope remains.