When I took this thing on, I had one goal: to glorify God by honoring Mom and helping her to finish her race well. That goal remains the same. If you’d think to pray for me in this, I’d sure appreciate it. I don’t know how much time Mom has with me, but I don’t want to waste any of it. So far, there’ve been a ton of surprises and more than a few missteps — but no regrets.

Editor’s note: Lisa Anderson is a member of Village Seven Presbyterian Church (PCA), in Colorado Springs, Colo., and is the author of  The Dating Manifesto: A Drama-Free Plan for Pursuing Marriage with Purpose .

After Christmas, my mom came to live with me in Colorado. It’s been a rough road.

Very rough.

I knew it would be hard, but I wasn’t prepared for it to be this hard.

My mom is now 87 with moderate dementia. She is slow-moving. She is feisty. She needs varying degrees of assistance with showering, going to the bathroom, dressing, and generally determining her next move. (How about reading your book, Mom? Want to watch this DVD? Let’s go for a walk! OK, we’re off to the store now; where’s your cane?) Prepping Mom’s meds for the week is like playing Mancala with myself. Getting ready for bed is a 45-minute ritual that involves multiple repetitions of things like, “Yes, I think it’s a good idea to take your bra off” and “Let’s try to tinkle one more time.”

Back when I was planning to take my mom in, my vision of how this would go was very different. Put simply, it involved me being a hero. I had grand plans to rescue Mom from her lonely life in an assisted living facility. I would move her to beautiful Colorado and give her days filled with healthy food, bracing exercise, stimulating activities and lots of love.

Some days I’m successful at this. The other 28 days of the month, not so much.

I soon learned that Mom often gets up during the night — two or three times. I discovered she’s on the constant hunt for snacks (like mother, like daughter) and can sniff out leftover brownies in a blizzard. I’ve seen her get angry and actually try to punch a friend of mine.

I didn’t know that in three months’ time Mom would manage to get lost (yes, actually lost, folks — for over an hour), land in the ER with a nosebleed, sustain a nasty fall, and be sufficiently traumatized by an unexpectedly grisly episode of Inspector Morse.

I was woefully ill-prepared for the life I’m now living.

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