I work in a residential mental health facility as an Activity Director, and over time I began to notice something quiet but consistent among the people I serve. Beyond activities, schedules, and structure, there was a deeper craving—a longing for spiritual care. It wasn’t something they always put into words, but it showed up in their questions, their restlessness, and their desire to sit with something meaningful. I started simply. I played church services online so they could watch together. We added gentle spiritual activities into our week, creating space for reflection, peace, and connection. Something shifted. The room felt calmer. The conversations felt softer. It felt like a need was being honored. Recently, I asked my pastor if she would be willing to come visit. When she arrived, she sat in a room with 16 residents who weren’t quite sure what to expect. You could feel the uncertainty at first. But as she spoke, listened, and simply showed up with presence and compassion, the room changed. Love filled the space in a way that can’t really be explained—you could feel it. Now my residents keep asking, “When is she coming back?” And today, my heart is so full. It reminded me that spiritual care doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just about creating space, inviting love in, and trusting that it will meet people exactly where they are.

Where have you felt God’s presence most clearly during your caregiving journey?

What scripture comes to your mind when thinking about taking care of people?

What special events do you have planned for March that you would like to share with other activity directors here?

This is a true story from when I drove as an Uber Driver. You can read more like this in the Classroom Caregivers in the Back Seat It was a warm afternoon when I picked him up—the kind of day where the sun feels heavy but unhurried, as if even time has slowed down. He was a quiet man, probably in his mid-sixties, with kind eyes that seemed to carry stories long before he ever spoke and a tired smile that suggested he had been holding a lot for a very long time. As he settled into the back seat, we began with the familiar rhythm of small talk— comments about the weather, the traffic, the time of day. The safe, surface-level conversation that fills most rides and asks nothing of anyone. But it did not take long before the silence between us felt different. Less like distance. More like an invitation. He shared that he was a caregiver for his wife, who had been living with a long-term illness. He spoke calmly, without drama or complaint, but each sentence carried weight. He described his days as a careful balancing act—working his job, managing the household, coordinating appointments, tracking medications, and tending to his wife’s needs, and always planning and constantly adjusting. Always available. He talked about exhaustion—the kind that creeps in quietly. The kind that does not disappear with a good night’s sleep. The kind that comes from being perpetually “on,” perpetually responsible, perpetually needed. Then he said something that stopped me. “You know,” he said softly, staring out the window as the scenery passed by, “sometimes I feel like caregiving has been turned into just another business.” I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and could see there was more beneath those words. He continued, his voice steady but heavy with lived experience. “Everywhere you go, there is a fee. A membership. A subscription. Another hoop to jump through. Another form to fill out. Another system to learn. But caregiving is not a business. It is personal. It is love. It is a sacrifice. And somewhere along the way, the world forgot that.” He paused, as if deciding whether to say more. Then he added, thoughtfully, “Do not get me wrong—I understand businesses must survive. I am not against people making a living. It is okay that they profit. But what I am longing for is compassion in their voices. To feel the love behind what they do. That is what makes all the difference.” The car grew quiet. Not an awkward silence—but a respectful one. The kind of silence that honors truth when it has been spoken. His words hung in the air, full of longing and clarity. In that moment, the car felt less like transportation and more like sacred ground—one where honesty had room to breathe. As we pulled up to his destination, he gathered himself and offered a small, understanding smile. “Thanks for listening,” he said. “Sometimes, that’s all a caregiver needs—someone to hear them.” I watched as he walked slowly toward the door, his shoulders carrying both devotion and fatigue. And I sat there for a moment longer than usual, letting the weight of his words settle. That ride stayed with me long after he was gone. His reflection echoed in my mind—a reminder of the countless caregivers quietly carrying heavy loads, navigating complicated systems, and loving fiercely in a world that often makes things more complex than they need to be. It reminded me that behind every title, every service, every program, a real person is doing their best to hold everything together. And maybe—maybe—the most remarkable thing we can offer caregivers isn’t another process or solution. Maybe it is a little more kindness. A little more compassion. A little less complication. Because in the end, caregiving is not about systems or subscriptions. It is about human connection. And that connection—when it is rooted in empathy and love—is what truly makes all the difference. And maybe that’s where healing begins. Reflection After that ride, I kept thinking about how easily caregiving gets buried under logistics, how love gets translated into paperwork, and how devotion becomes measured by compliance rather than compassion. Caregivers do not need perfection. They don’t need endless options. They need to feel seen. Sometimes the most healing thing we can offer isn’t efficiency—it’s humanity. A softer tone. A listening ear. A reminder that love, not systems, is what sits at the center of care.