This, then, is our desert: To love facing despair, but not to consent. To trample it down under hope in the Cross. – Thomas Merton, from Thoughts in Solitude

I coach C.Y.O. basketball. Or rather, I coached. Our season is over, and it was a losing one. The details of it need not complicate the reality of our record.

We had a great group of fifth-grade boys: intelligent, diverse, caring. Some were playing organized sports for the first time. Some battled with low confidence. Some simply needed time to settle in with skills and repetition. We practiced hard when everyone showed up. We played well in stretches. We lost some games because we were outmatched and others because of the mental game.

But we never forfeited. We never failed to show up. We shook hands after every game. When we were short players, we found guest subs. We always got back to practice even after a tough loss. We finished a difficult season together.

Still, it was a losing season.

We adults did not dwell on wins and losses with fifth graders. Our team ended the season with joy watching a high school game together, eating snacks and laughing. No playoffs. But we endured. We learned. We experienced moments that felt like grace.

Ultimately, coaching that season while walking through a tough year has forced me to reflect on much more than basketball.

A Tough Opponent

On a personal level, this last year has also been a losing season. In fact, it has been the hardest season of my life. I am the only child of a single parent. It has always been just the two of us. I have not dwelled on that fact or ever used it as a crutch; it is just how things went. However, I have long sensed that this day was coming, and it is now here. My mom turned 84 last year and her health rapidly declined. A diagnosis of early onset dementia a few years back was just the beginning.

The author with his mother, Kathy Betz. Credit: Courtesy of Joe Betz

Last year she fell down our basement stairs. The wounds were severe—tunneling, infection, long months of care. Major scars. I often joked that I could apply those months of home care for Mom toward a future nursing degree. Then came a second fall. Two fractures in her back. Hospitalizations. Skilled nursing care. Lots of pain. The quiet realization that she would likely never return to the only home she ever owned. She faced despair.

There were and continue to be graced moments in this desert, though. After weeks of physical therapy in a Catholic-rooted nursing home, she walked—slowly, with her walker—out the front doors after being cleared by her physical and occupational therapists. The staff gathered to watch her come home. The nursing director later told me he wanted his team to see her leave because most of their patients do not. It felt like an unexpected win against a formidable opponent.

She moved in with us after leaving the nursing home a year ago. Our household grew into an intergenerational family of six. Another graced moment. Life slowed: walkers in the hallway, medication schedules, short-term memory lapses, assistance with stairs, bathroom and showers. My wife, three kids and I learned to live in a new and beautiful way. I cannot thank my wife, Kristin, enough for all the ways she has cared for her mother-in-law.

Then came the diagnosis: Stage 3 colorectal cancer. The surgeon said it could not be removed by surgery. My mother faced chemotherapy and daily radiation for five weeks.

A moment when a team that is already down loses starting players late in the season is humbling and absolutely crushing. How would we add chemo and radiation to a walker, wounds, broken back and early onset of dementia? And yet, we kept playing.

At first, the impact of her treatment was not obvious. By week two or three, everything changed. Getting dressed in the morning required help. Walking slowed to a contemplative shuffle. There were accidents, exhaustion, humiliation, as well as many small human malfunctions. Our defense was gone. We kept showing up.

I came to understand that our efforts would result in a losing season, but it could teach me something about faith, family and the cross. I do not wrestle with theodicy, or why a good God permits suffering. Instead, I find myself asking: Where is God in this suffering? And how do we compassionately accompany those who are suffering?

I do feel God’s providence. Our friends and family have been blessings. They call, text and took her to some appointments. People stopped with snacks and stayed for conversation. The nurses and doctors were incredibly supportive. Like the mother of Jesus, people have shown up to be present and guide us forward.

Psalm 23:3 says, “He guides me along the right paths.”

The author (left) with his mother, Kathy Betz (center), his wife, Kristin Betz, and his children. Credit: Courtesy of Joe Betz

I wrote a note to Mom early in this journey saying, “Whatever we have to face we will face together.” She kept it on her dresser.

Isaiah 43:5 calls us to “Fear not,” and my hope in writing that note was that Mom (and I) would not fear all of this. I am learning to become OK with uncertainty in all aspects of life, and it has helped me fear less. The groaning within (and externally) has been very real, though. Calling for renewal in this season of life is not going to produce wins for which we might naturally hope. Our renewal includes the cross and awaiting the Lord.

Learning Self-Care

I have learned that self-care for caregivers is also essential. I have begun more intentional daily morning meditation. I awake early to help focus my day. I sometimes listen to mindfulness meditations on my commute to work instead of the news or my favorite tunes. I exercise on the bike and with weights often, and I have continued playing the drums. Mom would not want me to stop playing music. I even had a few sessions with a therapist. I am learning it is OK to not be OK. I continue to attend and support my children’s events. My wife and employer have been wonderful support systems.

However, the proximity to suffering has affected our children. My oldest, Ezra, got my mom water a few months ago and then asked her, “Ma, will you remember me when you get to heaven?” When I heard that question, I thought to myself: He gets it. In the same week, I lost an old childhood friend, also to colorectal cancer.

In all of this, Jesuit spiritual training has assisted me well. I have found more and more interior freedom even as my outside world has crumbled. Inordinate attachments have been forced to melt away or be managed in order to better serve Mom and my other family members. I am aware of the Two Standards and the temptation to serve the enemy versus serving Christ. Noticing is a strength, and once I name my anxieties, they tend to hold less power over me. Magnanimity is the proper disposition to serve, and I sense when it is present or absent these days.

I have learned to carefully discern, to say no to some good things in order to serve other goods. I am desperately listening for the call of the King, and trying to respond whenever I hear it. Little signs from interactions with my children, co-workers or even strangers at church have helped me heed the command to keep going.

I also experience the Anima Christi prayer differently now, “Within your wounds hide me…. Do not permit me to be separated from you.” We are deep within the wounds these days. We have decided to stay.

My mother passed away this past March. Mary is my guiding prayer partner. In my prayer, Mary is still young; she is grounded and approachable, quiet and focused. It’s a version of Mary I am intrigued by and want to be near. She was mercifully there for her son. I have found a role model.

The author with his wife, Kristin Betz (left), and his mother, Kathy Betz (center) Credit: Courtesy of Joe Betz

Theologically, wisdom abounds on this topic. Karl Rahner, S.J., suggested that suffering is unavoidable, mysterious and potentially transformative. Still, it is incomprehensible. The poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J., wrote, “And for all this, nature is never spent.” If God does not walk away from suffering and destruction, why should we?

The eschatological hope in the resurrection is real. It does not ever make perfect sense, and yet the horizon of the resurrection is always before us. Suffering permits us a chance to search for grace and even better conform ourselves to Christ.

Johann Baptist Metz challenges us even further and demands that we face human suffering and the memories it produces. The memoria passionis, as he calls it, is a disruptive reality that demands that we no longer permit indifference. When suffering moves into your home or your city or work, it reshapes you. You cannot unknow it. This is a disruptive memory. Will I be indifferent when proximate to it? Will you?

A losing season exposes what matters.

Human dignity does not disappear because a body weakens. If St. Irenaeus of Lyons is right—that the glory of God is a human being fully alive—then perhaps being fully alive in this world includes how we love those who suffer at the end.

This season has ended. All seasons do. By certain metrics, it has been a loss. But I am no longer sure that the final record is the most essential thing. We have not forfeited. We have not abandoned the game. We are learning that accompaniment is its own form of victory. Compassion, to suffer with, is training for eternity. There is hope in the cross.

And through grace, I am learning that losing seasons, lived with Christ, may be the very places where resurrection quietly takes root.

Joe Betz is the theology department chair at St. Ignatius High School in Cleveland, Ohio.