8 Tips on how to move or relocate a loved one, and celebrate the process

By Joe LaGuardia

Here at A Tapestry of Love, we have seen many families who care for a loved one who has to move to a new facility because of declining health or loss of independence.

Yet, the timing of the caregiver and the care receiver may be off–conflict arises when a decision as to when to move has to be made.  Sometimes, a care receiver just doesn’t want to move at all: he or she does not want to leave a home, memories  and neighborhoods behind.

What can help the transition process in a move or relocation?

There is no “right” answer for families going through this type of transition, but here are some things to think about when making any transition:

  • While you are consulting doctors, family, and friends about a possible move for your loved one, don’t forget to blanket everything with prayer.  Prayer fashions us into people who are receptive to God’s will, understanding and compassionate regarding the needs of others (and us included), and builds in us a Spirit-inspired patience that only God can give (a “peace that surpasses all understanding”).
  • Do not transition to a new home or relocate without (mostly) everyone being on board, even if it means compromise: Sometimes the compromise comes in the timing of the move.  One caregiver wants to move Mom now, while the other caregiver doesn’t think Mom is ready.  Make a timetable with which everyone is comfortable.  Seek advice from friends and doctors.  If Mom doesn’t want to move at all, then set up goals to move in that direction as appropriately as possible (do a “pros/cons” list with Mom, etc.).
  • Help the care receiver celebrate the memories or “sacred” spaces in the home by being intentional in the move: Don’t just pack everything and move; instead, go through things category by category (like, books or albums one day; furniture the next, etc.).  With each “category,” celebrate what those items mean to the whole family.  If the circumstances allow it, do not rush the move and let your loved one be a part of the moving process.
  • Share a meal or throw a party for friends and family to gather around the loved one and vocalize memories together.  Share what will be missed, but also provide opportunities for the new “blessings” that might be a part of your family’s new future as a result of the transition.  Cry together if it brings healing and closure.
  • Surround your loved one with a support system who can help you all make the transition.  Don’t try to move Mom or Dad alone, bring friends into the conversation.
  • Help your loved one recognize that although they are grieving having to leave behind all of the “gifts” they have been afforded in their home (like memories, raising children, etc), that this transition means they will now become a gift for others: like spending more time with grandchildren or great-grandchildren, or focusing on the future of the family by passing down memories and stories rather than holding on to the past.
  • Recognize that any transition requires some grief work.  Make room for your loved one to express the range of emotions that accompany grief, such as bargaining, anger, and sadness.  If your loved one continues to express these emotions up to three months after the move, then partner your loved one with a grief counselor or a therapist who can help in the healing process.  You just moved your loved one–budget a little cash on the side to pay for that intervention if necessary!
  • Celebrate the new beginning of making new memories and gaining new friends.  Although change is hard for everyone, there is something to be said about coming into new places.  This can be invigorating and rewarding.  God is with us everywhere, and we should not overlook either the power of sacred space (“home”) in maintaining that relationship, as well as the new adventures to which God calls us–even when unfamiliar.

As you and your family transition your loved one to a new home or setting, keep in mind that prayer should be the basis for everything.  There is no “right” way of doing things, and let us know how you have struggled or helped make for a smooth transition in your care receiver’s life.

Listen, listen, listen.

By Daphne Reiley

As a caregiver, recognizing that we need help is the first step toward a more healthy existence. Not such a profound statement, yet, for most caregivers, even recognition is difficult. Then after we recognize that we need help, actually reaching out for that help is sometimes nigh on to impossible.

Realizing that we are not as strong as “we need to be” does not indicate we are failing in our roles as caregivers. That realization simply means we are ready to take care of ourselves — something that is often left by the way in the midst of our caregiving duties.

Part of a plan to keep us grounded in our own condition, in our own needs, successes, and even failures, is to pray. Simply talk with God about our days, our worries, our joys, and our failures. Prayer is a conversation — a two – way conversation — meaning that we also must find a way of being silent and listen for God’s Word to us, for us.

God, of course, is not limited in the ways in which God responds.

We can experience a Word being spoken by the person of whom we are taking care. Listen.

We can experience a Word being spoken to us by a complete stranger — perhaps the clerk checking us out at the grocery store. Listen.

We can experience a Word being spoken to us by what we are reading — fiction, non-fiction, a magazine, a flyer. Listen.

We can experience a Word being spoken to us by what we are listening to — music, conversation, simple laughter overheard somewhere. Listen.

We can experience a Word being spoke to us when we sit in silence at the end of a long day and ask God to come, make God’s Presence known to us, to comfort and console us — and we Listen.

God is there. None of us is alone in our roles — whatever they may be, whether we have actually invited God into our lives or not — God is there nonethless.

Grace abounds.

Gardening at the Monastery

Daphne Reiley

Forgiveness of deep hurt takes time just like gardening and clearing a bed of weeds or those invasive plants we planted thinking they were beautiful only to find that they had taken over.  Those invasive plants are invasive because they are very good at staying put, of sinking tendrils of roots deep in the soul of the soil.  Those tendrils stay put sometimes when the remainder of the plant is pulled or dug up. They wait for the right conditions: moisture, warmth, nutrients; then they emerge and the pulling starts again.

When we have been deeply wounded, that wound runs deep.  Regardless of how much pondering and figuring out and releasing we do sometimes, the pain remains – there remain tendrils of the pain deep in the soil of our souls.  Those tendrils wait, sometimes for years, for the right conditions: remembrances, music, texts, events, pictures – contemplation on a rainy day at a monastery; then they emerge and bring fresh pain and tears and a pleading to be done with it.

Seemingly, those tendrils will always remain.  Yet, with persistent, deep work on the soil of our soul, even those tendrils can be removed, freeing us from the vestiges of the original pain, from a certain dread of those things that brought it to mind, from the restraint of relationship and commitment to others that sometimes arises with deep hurt.  Persistent, deep work; the kind of work done best in the quiet hours, in the isolation of a monastery, perhaps in the woods where one can release the pain in tears, in final questions, in prayers and pleading.

After all that, there is the offering of forgiveness, naming those very personal ways in which someone has wounded us, ways in which it is embarrassing to have been wounded – only available to those to whom we have bared our souls.  Saying out loud to God, and in our hearts and minds to the one who wounded, that we forgive.

Hard work it is, leaving exhaustion – physical, mental, and emotional – in its wake.  Exhaustion and an odd sort of empty peace.   Where those tendrils had remained is now empty.  Yet, not really empty, for if we pause long enough, bravely enough to feel that emptiness, we find God.  God’s promise has always been that He will be with us in our struggles, that He will give us strength for the battles we must fight, that He will give us rest.

The peace that fills the place where the tendrils used to be will set its own tendrils, deep within the soil of our soul.  That peace that passes all understanding.