It Is Not Labor, It Is Love

 

Yesterday, I could feel sickness trying to take hold of me.

My chest was sore, as if sandpaper had been rubbed against it, and the day felt like I was moving through a twilight state—present, but heavy. I wanted to rest. I needed to rest.

But the caregiver called out for my brother.

And so, once again, I stepped in.

My brother—unlike most of us—cannot scratch his head when it itches. He cannot clean his ears with a Q-tip. He needs both arms for that, and the stroke took one away. His hair itches often, and the night before, I had promised him I would shave it for him.

I was not about to let him down.

So even with a sore chest and a weary body, I shaved his hair slowly and carefully, with intention and love, while he watched YouTube videos—content, trusting, at ease. And then, as if prompted by a gentle whisper, a thought came to me:

Clean his ears.

And I did.

Ten Q-tips per ear to remove the built-up wax. Ten reminders of how much discomfort he had been quietly carrying. My heart broke as I worked.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked him.

He looked at me and replied,
“I try not to ask for too much. I just bear it and try not to let it bother me.”

That moment stayed with me.

As a caregiver.
As an advocate.
As a sister.
As a friend to my brother.
And as a believer in Jesus Christ.

In that quiet exchange, I saw the heart of divine love—the kind of love that serves without keeping score, that bears burdens silently, that gives without complaint. I saw humility. I saw grace. I saw Christ.

And I realized something deeply important:

I have no regrets caring for my brother all these years.

Not one.

Because this is not labor.
It is love.

Love that shows up even when the body is tired.
Love that listens beyond words.
Love that notices the small discomforts others endure quietly.
Love that reflects the compassion of Christ in ordinary, unseen moments.

This is caregiving.
This is devotion.
This is sacred work.

And I would choose it again—every time.

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