For many, grief brings despair, anger, or fear. Yet, my father’s passing hasn’t stirred those emotions in me. He lived his life with nothing left unsaid or undone. My four brothers, sister, and mother—his wife of 66 years—feel the same. We didn’t face his death with regret or unfinished business. We shared the rare gift of a complete relationship without the “what-ifs” or “if-onlys.”

After four decades as a caregiver, I thought I understood grief. I’ve watched my wife, Gracie, battle relentless pain and loss since her devastating car accident in 1983—a crash that led to more than 80 operations, multiple amputations, and a struggle with chronic pain that would crush most people. I’ve grieved alongside her in stages, mourning the parts of her health and life that slipped away over time. Some call it incremental and continual grief.
But standing beside my father’s casket, I encountered something new—a grief that cuts to the bone and leaves a void, like a door slammed shut. This wasn’t the slow, grinding sorrow of caregiving, where you brace yourself daily for another blow. And even though not unexpected, it was swift and final—a full-stop in the story of a man who shaped me.
My father and I shared a bond built on respect, love, and a mutual commitment to our Christian faith. His unwavering support and wise counsel were anchors in my life, especially during the most challenging caregiving moments. When I was lost in the wilderness of Gracie’s suffering, his words guided me back to solid ground.
For many, grief brings despair, anger, or fear. Yet, my father’s passing hasn’t stirred those emotions in me. He lived his life with nothing left unsaid or undone. My four brothers, sister, and mother—his wife of 66 years—feel the same. We didn’t face his death with regret or unfinished business. We shared the rare gift of a complete relationship without the “what-ifs” or “if-onlys.”
Caregivers know the unique pain of “anticipatory grief”—mourning the losses you see coming while still wrestling with the ones at hand. I’ve lived in that space for decades, grieving bit by bit as I watched Gracie’s body and spirit endure the unimaginable. That kind of grief is a slow bleed, exhausting even the strongest spirit. But this grief for my father is different—blunt, piercing, and conclusive. I am no longer waiting for the inevitable but living in its aftermath.
As I sit with these feelings, I’m struck by how my sorrow is softened by the lessons my father imparted throughout his life. One such lesson came unexpectedly when I was asked to speak at the Huntington’s Disease Society of America (HDSA) conference some years ago. Huntington’s is a devastating genetic disease that haunted my father’s family for generations. It was a heavy legacy, and knowing this weighed on me as I accepted the invitation.
I arrived the evening before and met many wonderful people at a meet-and-greet. I listened to their stories and felt the weight of their suffering. Even though I’m no stranger to harsh realities, the depth of their pain overwhelmed me. Later that night, as I sat in my hotel room, mentally rehearsing my keynote address, I called my father and confessed, “Dad, I don’t feel worthy to talk with these people.”
He didn’t hesitate. “You have been uniquely prepared and equipped by God to minister to these people and more—and there’s no one in line behind you to do it. Now get down there and do your job!” His voice, honed by decades as a pastor and Navy Chaplain, was steady and unyielding. My only response was, “Yes, Sir!”
The next day, I spoke with passion and conviction, knowing I was fulfilling my father’s commission. I’d seen him walk into the most horrific circumstances with the confidence of the Gospel and the authority of God’s Word. With his words echoing in my ears, I felt his hand on my shoulder as I stepped into that same role.
As I navigate this different kind of grief, I find solace in reflecting on the countless lessons my father imparted—in both word and deed. His life was a gift, not just to me but to so many others. My gratitude tempers the sting of loss. Though the tears come, they are mixed with joy for a life well lived and a race well run.
Many people experience grief tangled up with unresolved issues. My father had a difficult relationship with his own father, and his life was marked by sadness over “what could have been.” Yet, he allowed that sorrow to be transformed by God’s grace. He became a father to not only his six children but to our spouses, cousins, and a host of others who found refuge at our home.
As I wrestle with this different kind of grief, I am determined to let it be shaped by God’s provision, principles, and purpose. The loss of a father is a unique, incalculable pain. Sometimes, that loss comes from abandonment—but death comes for us all, even the most loving of fathers.
Since my father’s charge to take the stage at that conference, I’ve spoken to tens of thousands of fellow caregivers who struggle with the same kind of incremental grief and heartache I’ve carried. Now, while shouldering this different kind of grief, I find new resonance in the scriptures that describe Jesus as “…a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).
Reflecting on my father’s legacy of ministry to broken lives, I am reminded of his favorite hymn:
“There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.There is a balm in Gilead, to heal the sin-sick soul.”
My grief—a different kind of grief—is real and will last a lifetime until I am reunited with my father in Heaven. But I know what he would want me to do now: allow God to turn this grief into a balm for others. So, when my head hangs in sorrow, I still hear his voice echoing in my heart:
“Get out there and do your job.”
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. His newest book is A Minute for Caregivers—When Every Day Feels Like Monday. www.HopeforTheCaregiver.com

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With their deep understanding of the brutal realities of my life and the potential dangers that lurk, my pastors do not “motivate” me; they shepherd me. Modeling “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Deuteronomy 8:3,  Matthew 4:4). They preach the whole counsel of God provided in the Scriptures.

“Are we serving you well?”
The unexpected question from two pastors caught me off guard, prompting a moment of reflection. As pastors of a large Nashville church, their humility in asking about their ministry’s impact on my life deeply touched me. Despite being one of several thousand members, their concern for my well-being amidst the challenges I faced as the sole caregiver for my wife with severe disabilities was both surprising and humbling.
The context, however, contained the impetus. As the sole caregiver for my wife with severe disabilities and a medical history that now spans forty years and 85+ operations, they recognized the strain on my life. They also knew that our circumstances would not get easier with age and that my wife’s broken body and amputated limbs would not be reversed this side of Heaven.
Reflecting on what they inquired, I answered them in a way that seemed to surprise them.
“I am in the congregation and listen to every one of your sermons—and you know my challenges. If your preaching and teaching don’t effectively help me better understand the Gospel and how it applies to my life as a caregiver, then what’s the point of the message?
As they listened intently, I explained, “My journey as a caregiver is all-encompassing and spans a lifetime. I know how to “care-give,” but do I know how to live? Do I understand the principles and precepts of scripture as they apply to me as someone who watches someone suffer daily? What do I do with fear, guilt, despair, and a host of other issues that caregivers feel?
While the men nodded with understanding, I concluded, “Your clear, concise, and precise teaching of the scriptures is what equips me to endure—this is how you are caring for me.”
Those pastors, whom I count as dear friends, still invest in my life even though I moved across the country several years back. With great clarity and sincerity, they spoke to the heart issue I bear—and that all caregivers carry: We struggle with a good and loving God who allows the suffering and misery we often see daily.
That conversation with those pastors remains a seminal moment in my understanding of effective pastoral care for hurting congregants. Despite a question that might have opened the door to criticism, their simple inquiry led to “precision pastoring.”
I’ve heard too many pulpits preach a message of “You’re going to get your breakthrough” or “Your challenges are a set-up to a step-up” style sermons. Bluntly speaking, those kinds of topical, motivational messages with a “Jesus” flair mean nothing to me—nor to the thousands of caregivers I’ve talked to over the years.
Jesus told Peter to “feed my sheep,” not entertain or inspire them.
Our friends who live near our home in Montana run a ranch filled with cattle, sheep, and goats. During the lambing season, I love to stop and watch the baby goats and lambs playfully hop, prance, and dance around while their cautious mothers watch them, ensuring they stay in line and safe from harm. During this vulnerable time, they remained protected from predators within an oversized pen. At the pen’s center lies a large circular feeder, where the ewes gather around to fuel themselves with ample hay deposits to meet their young’s demanding needs.
The new mothers require lots of sustenance to meet the extreme needs of nursing and protecting their babies. When the weather is cold, and the sheep are at their most vulnerable while giving birth, the watchful ranchers feed and protect them. In warmer weather, they move to pastures where they can live a little more independently.
Numerous accounts share how our savior referred to himself as the shepherd and us as the sheep. I can’t imagine the apostle Peter not understanding the context of raising sheep while listening to Jesus’ command.
Our rancher friends provide an up-close view of “precision shepherding.” Their ranch’s survival depends upon properly feeding the sheep quality food—particularly during harsh climates. If the power goes out, the water troughs can freeze—and during Montana’s often brutal winter climate, the ice requires breaking, a backup generator, or all sorts of other emergency tasks to ensure the livestock’s survival. During those vulnerable times, the ranchers don’t motivate the sheep; they intensely care for them. They only “motivate” them during the warm, relaxed time when they move them from pasture to pasture.
With their deep understanding of the brutal realities of my life and the potential dangers that lurk, my pastors do not “motivate” me; they shepherd me. Modeling “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Deuteronomy 8:3 & Matthew 4:4). They preach the whole counsel of God provided in the Scriptures.
They help me better understand (and anchor my life) in God’s sovereignty, provision, and faithfulness, strengthening my faith to trust Him with the daily grind of my life. They actively engaged, protected, fed, and nourished me with a profound understanding of the Gospel, providing the sustenance that has carried me through the most challenging times.
They still do.
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. His newest book is A Minute for Caregivers—When Every Day Feels Like Monday. www.HopeforTheCaregiver.com
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Setting an appointment with our pastor, Bob, she limped into his office on her mangled right foot (while her damaged left leg bore the brunt.) As she sat quietly in his study, he stated, “Gracie, this room is off-limits to every other voice telling you what to do. My job is to help quieten the noise so you can hear your own thoughts – and God’s leading.”

“We’ve done everything possible to save this leg, all that’s left is amputation. When you’re ready, we’ll have that conversation.”
Those words came from my wife’s surgeon, following numerous operations to save her right leg – crushed and disfigured in her 1983 car accident. Everyone in Gracie’s life, including me, had an opinion about this – and Gracie understandably struggled mightily during this time.
The clamor of opinions combined with our self-doubts and fears created a “wall of noise” that felt like a stack of Marshall amps at a Van Halen concert – and, sadly, Gracie found herself amid a storm of speculation by family and friends. At twenty-five, with a toddler, her young heart felt the awful dread of having to look her surgeon in the eye and instruct him to amputate her right leg.
Setting an appointment with our pastor, Bob, she limped into his office on her mangled right foot (while her damaged left leg bore the brunt.) As she sat quietly in his study, he stated, “Gracie, this room is off-limits to every other voice telling you what to do. My job is to help quieten the noise so you can hear your own thoughts – and God’s leading.”
Gracie pondered for over an hour while Pastor Bob sat at his desk – no words passed between them. Finally, Gracie looked up with tear-filled eyes and said, “I’m terrified of doing this,” she whispered. Gaining strength, she continued, “But I can’t live this way any longer – it’s got to come off.”
Nodding somberly, he assured Gracie he’d be with her through the ordeal and kept his word.
Sometimes, the greatest gift we can give to others struggling with heartbreaking decisions is to clear the room, quieten the noise, and sit with them. Scripture reveals God’s explanations are rare, but His presence is constant. Pastor Bob allowed Gracie the stillness and time to be alone with her thoughts, but God assures us that even in our lonely hearts, He is always with us.
More than one hundred years ago, Pastor Cleland McAfee felt rocked when both his nieces died in the same week from diphtheria. Pastor McAfee labored over how to address this terrible grief that washed over the entire community. Working on his sermon, he wrote what would become one of the most beloved hymns in the world. On Saturday evening, the choir assembled and gathered outside his brother’s home and quietly sang the hymn to the distressed family.
There is a place of quiet restNear to the heart of GodA place where sin cannot molestNear to the heart of God. 
Pastor Bob modeled what that hymn affirms.
Gracie later stated, “I didn’t know what was on the other side of that operating room door – but I knew who waited for me there.”
That confidence came from her sitting quietly – near to the heart of God.
Gracie repeated the scenario four years later when she relinquished her remaining leg. I watched nurses push her from recovery to the ICU when she awoke. Lying on the gurney, she lifted her hands and sang the Doxology.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;Praise Him, all creatures here below;Praise Him above, ye heav’nly host;Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
The responsibility – and privilege – of pastors is to help quieten the room for others with terrible challenges and heartache. It’s in those quiet places, near the heart of God, that we gain the strength and resolve to trust Him with the anguish – while praising Him in the unimaginable.
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. He’s served as his wife’s caregiver for nearly forty years. His newest book is A Minute For Caregivers.

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Those times remain etched in my heart because an assailant at the Covenant School in Nashville shot and killed that custodian. I flew back to Tennessee to play for Mike Hill one last time – at his funeral. The opening hymn, Great is Thy Faithfulness, includes the line I often use in my prayers, “Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.” Sitting at the piano, just a few yards from the casket of that dear man, I purposed to play that hymn with zeal and passion – as a believer, not just a mourner.

Praying during seasons “…when sorrows like sea billows roll” can be difficult. The words seem elusive, and faith often falters. Caring for my wife, Gracie, for nearly forty years through a relentless and painful journey of severe disabilities, those seasons of sorrow often seem interminable. What do I petition God to do in those times: ease her pain, grow her legs back, or guide the surgeon’s hands on her upcoming 86th operation?
All those questions (and many more) have flooded over me countless times. Yet, in those moments, I find solace in the hymnal. A pianist longer than a caregiver, I regularly retreat to the piano in dark moments when words fail. Picking up a hymnal, I find comfort, strength, and resilience in the prayers of those who penned the cries of their hearts and set them to music.
The stories behind those hymns add an even greater poignancy to the lyrics. Horatio Spafford’s timeless “It Is Well,” written over the watery grave of his children in the Atlantic Ocean, continues to comfort people worldwide. Reverend Cleland McAfee wrote “Near to the Heart of God” after disease took the lives of his young nieces in the same week. When penning, “In seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief,” William Walford pointed the world to the “…Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Despite being deserted by his father during childhood, Henry Lyte gave us the incomparable “Abide With Me,” and William Monk wrote the tune for that hymn – after the death of his three-year-old child.
Those are only a few of the countless hymns written by those who took their agony to God.
We all face moments when our heartache overpowers the ability to speak. During those times, I sit at the keyboard and use the music and words of others. Sometimes I played them in a hospital chapel, and other times, in an empty church sanctuary – particularly in a large church we attended years ago when we lived in Nashville, TN. While playing in that sanctuary, I discovered I wasn’t alone. The church’s custodian, Mike Hill, swept, organized hymnals, and frequently sat in the back to listen as I poured out my heart at the piano. I often stopped and asked if there was something I could play for him.
His simple response was always, “Just keep playing.”
Those times remain etched in my heart because an assailant at the Covenant School in Nashville shot and killed that custodian. I flew back to Tennessee to play for Mike one last time – at his funeral. The opening hymn, Great is Thy Faithfulness, includes the line I often use in my prayers, “Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.” Sitting at the piano, just a few yards from the casket of that dear man, I purposed to play that hymn with zeal and passion – as a believer, not just a mourner. He would have wanted me to do so.
“Just keep playing.”
Even when our words fail us, a treasure trove of words remains in our church hymnal. The writers and composers of those hymns left us a legacy that provides text to our grief and strengthens our weary and troubled hearts.
The closing hymn of Mike’s funeral in Nashville echoed lines from Pastor Ray Palmer’s “My Faith Looks Up to Thee.” When waking in the “…valley of the shadow of death”, this hymn settles my soul and fixes my eyes forward.
“While life’s dark maze I treadand griefs around me spread,be Thou my guide.Bid darkness turn to day.Wipe sorrow’s tears away,not let me ever stray from Thee aside.”
While prayers seem easy to some, I often struggle to express my heart to God. In those times, I remain deeply grateful that so many took time to journal their anguish – and leave exquisite prose for those of us who often feel at a loss for words.
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. His newest book is titled, “A Minute for Caregivers – When Every Day Feels Like Monday.” 

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Even before the pandemic, the stress levels in our country soared to record highs. Since COVID-19, it seems we need new indicators to measure the off-the-chart angst, rancor, and overall unsettledness weighing on so many. More than ever, people need plain and unadorned speech—compassion without pretension and assurance rather than arguments.

“Welcome to the Program; how are you feeling?” I asked the caller to my radio program for family caregivers.
“I’m blessed!” The caller answered me sweetly, and then her voice dramatically changed. ”But I’ve had it with my Mama!”
The caller detailed challenges caring for her mother and the ensuing resentment and frustration. We chatted for a while on the air, and I remember it as a good call, but I couldn’t forget her opening, “I’m blessed, but….”
Many Christians, unfortunately, often lapse into “God-talk,” and their vocabulary sounds more like a seminarian who exclusively uses the King James Bible. That caller represented one of those fluent in “God-talk,” and her call prompted me to direct future callers away from the “Christian-ese.” Whatever people struggle with, moving to a healthier place always involves having a real conversation without the affectations.
Another negative side effect of the God-talk is an unfortunate lack of awareness of how off-putting it is for those “outside the bubble.” It is hard to say whether the vernacular is a deliberate effort to sound more spiritual, but it often seems intentional.   Yet, is that necessary?
More than 100 physicians have treated my wife since her car accident in 1983, and we’ve always appreciated when doctors avoided condescension or talking over our heads. The most meaningful exchanges were when they spoke normally – even about complex and distressing things.
How is it different when talking about matters of the heart and faith?
I knew a young pastor who was affable, relaxed, and easy to converse with – until he stepped behind a pulpit. When he preached, he used this sonorous tone that affected his speech and distracted from his message. He left that church soon after, and I haven’t heard him preach in years, but I hope he sanded off the affectation. When a pastor talks like Jeff Foxworthy in person and Dr. Martin Lloyd-Jones from the pulpit, people notice – and not in a good way.
Somewhere along the way, it seems many Christians started feeling that talking to someone about their faith (whether over coffee or from a pulpit) meant assuming an air of spirituality. Yet that kind of speech is dropped when talking about a favorite meal, movie, or event. When witnessing, do we sound scripted? When ministering to someone in distress, must we echo a Christian greeting card?
Worse still, do we adopt a religious tone to make gossiping more acceptable?
Growing up in the south, we had it down cold when speaking detrimentally about anyone. We could always soften the insult or gossip with one of the most familiar phrases in southern lingo, “…bless his heart.” Regardless of the accusation or slight, “bless his heart” makes anything more palatable.
“He kills puppies …bless his heart.”
As ridiculous as that sounds, how is it different from the God-talk assumed when wanting others to think better of us – or less of someone else?
Even before the pandemic, the stress levels in our country soared to record highs. Since COVID-19, it seems we need new indicators to measure the off-the-chart angst, rancor, and overall unsettledness weighing on so many. More than ever, people need plain and unadorned speech—compassion without pretension and assurance rather than arguments.
In college many years ago, I met a couple who went to the mission field as Bible translators. Their work inspires me, and the model they use seems to represent a path for all of us. “Embrace people and understand their ways, culture, and history. Share the Gospel in a way that makes sense to them – and one day, when fluent in their language, translate the Scriptures.”
Embrace, understand, share, translate. Those four steps – in that order – represent a practical path for communicating to people in whatever circumstances. Embracing requires no “God talk” or affectation, but it does require humility. More than just observing, understanding also means appreciating the circumstances of others. Sharing and translating allow us to communicate for the benefit of others rather than elevating ourselves.
When looking at the life of Christ, that’s what He did (and does) for us – and the model hardly needs embellishing.
“…just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many” (Matthew 20:28).
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program, Hope for the Caregiver. 
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America’s decline, along with growing defiance against the Almighty, now warrants a change in prayers. No longer can we appeal for God to bless America. Our circumstances now prompt a cry for mercy. Due to our collective decay now bearing fruit, a more urgent prayer is for God to spare America.

A repeated appeal to the Almighty has echoed throughout America’s existence from citizens, military, and political leaders alike. From professional sporting events to standup comedians and musicians ending their shows to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America,” the phrase remains uttered in every part of the country – every day. Yet, “God Bless America” took an unexpected turn when then-President Obama invoked it when ending one of his speeches by asking God to bless Planned Parenthood.
As this familiar phrase perfunctorily continues in America’s public life, one can’t help but wonder to whom people are praying.
If the deity entreated is the God of the Bible, then specific questions might be in order – the main of which is “do we even know this God so regularly asked to bless America?”
“God” arrives in our language and subsequently in our English Bibles from the Proto-Germanic “Gudan.” Yet the God of the Bible was not referred to as such. Surprisingly to some, neither Moses nor the Apostle Paul read from the King James Bible. Considered so holy, the Jews used a shorthand reference to keep the name of the God of the Bible separate and avoid breaking the second commandment:
“You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes his name in vain.” Exodus 20:7
The God of the Bible seems serious about His name – and invoking that name. It seems hard to imagine the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob getting fired up at the Super Bowl, NASCAR, or other events where Americans wax sentimentally. Would the “Great I AM” who made Himself known to Moses – spared during Pharoah’s genocide of infants – be pleased when entreated to bless the nation’s largest provider of abortion services?
Glibness towards the Almighty implies disrespect, as well as a dismissive contempt of an omnipotent being who “…brought forth the heavens and the earth.” Even if merely a higher power, there remains a deplorable ignorance from a culture cheekily referring to Him as the “Man Upstairs.”
America’s concept of and relationship with God claims roots in the framers and founders of the country. As they knew and described Him, God was indeed the God of the Bible. Their understanding of God is far from this caricature – this “good luck charm” – that many superficially mention.
With so many mocking His word, His followers, and His tenants, why would He dismiss such behavior to bless something His word clearly abhors? Scripture remains clear on God’s principles: same-sex relationships, mass genocide of the unborn, immorality, and lawlessness. Yet America flagrantly disregards at best or worse rewrites to accommodate the desires du jour – while still asking for God’s approval and blessing.
The prayer must change. The people of God can no longer appeal to the Alpha and Omega for blessings in good faith. “In God, we trust” no longer applies to our culture. In the act of wry honesty, America could change the motto to “In a manufactured god we trust.” That’s what Moses’ brother, Aaron did with the golden calf – and for centuries after, the people of God seemed pre-disposed to repeat Aaron’s idolatry and appeal to a created diety that accommodates unbridled desires.
Contrary to pop culture, the character of human beings remains unchanged over the eons – we’re not becoming better people. Societies that divorce themselves from the authority of the God of the Bible prove that point each day. Yet, even those who adhere to that authority still find themselves coming up short due to our systemic failings. The Biden administration is correct to recognize a systemic evil in America – but they miss the mark by identifying it as racism. The failure is far more profound – and none are immune.
Jeremiah, as well as the framers of our Constitution, knew this when describing human beings.
“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it?” Jeremiah 17:9
America’s decline, along with growing defiance against the Almighty, now warrants a change in prayers. No longer can we appeal for God to bless America. Our circumstances now prompt a cry for mercy. Due to our collective decay now bearing fruit, a more urgent prayer is for God to spare America.
Peter Rosenberger hosts the nationally syndicated radio program Hope for the Caregiver. www.hopeforthecaregiver.com