Sometimes you're tested. Sometimes you feel exhausted, worn out, because daily life absorbs you completely. You can't find time to rest, to recover, or even to ask for help. And human fragility is heavy—weighed down by so many things.
My Giorgio and Cristina suffered terribly in the heat, especially her. Problems piled up. There was no relief. By early August we were finished, exhausted. When the day center closed for summer, everything became even harder. I slept little. Night and day blurred together. I ate less. There was only restlessness, complaints, tears. That was our summer.
We took trips to the mountains, searching for cool air, comfort, relief. Sometimes it helped. Often it didn't. We came home more exhausted than we'd left, and I was angrier. What did I want in those days? What was I looking for? I wanted to run away, to stop caring, to say enough. Despite countless attempts to understand, to act, to help, I felt utterly powerless and defenseless against my sister's distress and my brother's despair.
I longed for someone to listen, to understand the weight I carried. I wanted rest. A peaceful night's sleep. An open hand reaching toward me. A reassuring voice. An attentive look that saw us and could answer each person's suffering. I wanted a hand on my shoulder. Someone to say simply, "Be brave," or "Go rest—I'm here."
I wanted to travel and find relief, but I also wanted company, someone to talk to. Instead, no matter what we tried, we stayed isolated—at home, traveling, in the mountains, by the lake. I looked for comfort and for answers: What else could I have done to make those months less heavy? I looked for God in the exhaustion, in the weight and strain of it all. I knocked on doors that wouldn't open. I searched. I searched in vain.
That season has passed now, seems far behind. What remains is silence—a silence shared by the three of us in this house. I prepare for the next winter: the warmth of the wood stove, eyes that close as though trying to recover all those sleepless nights, an almost surreal quiet. Have our batteries died? Can a charger fix that?
As I write, it's nearly 7:30 p.m. I look at Giorgio and Cristina. They're still in their wheelchairs, but they're already asleep—he's been out for a while. Now I move them to bed. Then I almost rush to my own bed to recharge, at least physically. Tomorrow we start again. Yes, tomorrow—if we wake by God's grace, we begin again, whether our batteries are full or not.
The prophet Elijah comes to mind. Exhausted from wandering, from being ignored, threatened with death, he fled into the desert. He found a broom tree, lay beneath it, and fell asleep, completely spent. But the Lord sent an angel who touched him and said, "Rise and eat, for the journey is too long for you." What brings comfort in life's struggle? What recharges us? Tonight, I go to bed with Elijah and wait for an angel's touch.