Of course, I remember him for his cardigan and for being among the first to teach me what it truly means to love your neighbor as yourself. But I also remember him because he was a shining example from my own vocation of what it means to speak gently into the lives of others who you do not know, and whose experience you might not yet understand.
Fred Rogers will always be a shining example of what right looks like for a member of the clergy devoted to the betterment of others.
It’s almost cliché now, but his quote, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping’,” teaches a lesson much deeper than the credit often afforded to him. When life throws curveballs, there are always those on the field tracking them down and caring for the needs of those affected.
The helpers are always helping—but who is responsible for helping the helper?
There are always people mobilizing to help in the aftermath of tragedy. Sometimes they are volunteers who feel moved by the unfolding events, and sometimes they are professionals whose vocation is directed toward providing care and answers amid challenge.
Volunteers and vocationally focused caregivers are both exposed to trauma in the moment, but there is reason to believe that those perennially exposed experience a greater cumulative burden and require a different recuperative process to return to full capacity.
Those continually exposed to traumatic events, and those who are expected to function as caregivers when they have been exposed firsthand, carry a risk that must be considered as the demand for care continues or deepens.
It is incumbent on institutions and systems that employ and assign caregivers-regardless of the discipline—as co-laborers in the midst of unfolding trauma—to monitor exposure and to ensure that sufficient recuperative space is given to those affected. Anyone present in the midst of trauma must find respite—but those providing care in the midst of trauma must deal with their own emotional recovery while also bearing the weight of those to whom they are expected to provide care.
Those whose primary vocation is the provision of care are able to function in the midst of trauma, but over time that capacity begins to wane, and it can diminish significantly if the trauma continues to compound.
Caregivers who respond to actual trauma develop essential and important skills that allow them to navigate future traumatic events with greater skill and depth—delivering honed care much faster than those responding to their first event. This often leads institutions to rely on their expertise without considering the cumulative effects of trauma on these individuals.
Those caregivers who are present in the moment of trauma cannot separate their caregiving from their own experience of the trauma. This is not a fault but a reality of the human condition.
The task of providing care is sacred, no matter the discipline. When a caregiver must continue to provide care in the midst of their own trauma—shared with those receiving care—the burden is compounded. There should be built-in relief to account for cumulative burden.
When the institution determines that the threshold has been exceeded, it owes action to all involved. It must intentionally determine what is reasonable and what is in the best interest of those who experienced the trauma as it unfolded. The institution owes recuperative care to the caregiver—and it must be offered non-punitively, transparently, and to every discipline of caregiver affected.
This care should temporarily remove the affected caregivers from exposure to potential traumas. It should provide a safe place to regain perspective, to process grief, and to find restorative rest from the traumatic event, and it should offer care without risking the institutional future of the individual. Understandably, not every individual will resolve the issue through intentional respite, but participation in such a program must not become a limitation to future service in the community or institution.
Ensuring the emotional and spiritual readiness of caregivers through respite care is not only morally essential, but it also strengthens the organization’s ability to respond to future trauma. A chronically depleted body of caregivers—or depleted individuals within that body—weakens the fabric of the whole—and may directly undermine the effectiveness of direct care.
Likewise, the caregiver must be willing to accept the respite—and they should agree to this approach prior to the trauma occurring in the first place. My own experience has taught me that those most in need of respite care are often those who self-rationalize the need to continue providing care in the midst of unfolding trauma. Instead of further exposure, the organization should be prepared to provide additional resources that make room for the initial responders to step away and recover.
Sometimes the cumulative weight of care is most visible only after years have passed.
This past week I was honored to participate in the retirement for a colleague. It was a meaningful experience. I was afforded the opportunity to say some words about meaning and loss—and to join with others as we marked his transition into the next season of his life. And it gave me time to reflect on meaning and the depth of the burdens we sometimes carry.
We shared memories and thoughts about the depth of his vocation. We reflected on the impact of the loss we feel when we lose those who journeyed alongside us. And we paused to name again those whose names we fervently hope are never forgotten.
It has been said that people die twice. Once at the actual moment of their death, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. In some ways this is a trite expression, but in other ways it is a stark reminder that their memory is only alive when we give it room to live.
When people retire, they are often presented with mementos that honor their career. On this day, the memento did just that, but it also included an addendum—the inscribed names of those lost during various tragedies throughout his career.
I have known my colleague for a long time—and I know the liturgy of his life as a result. I have witnessed the impact of the loss, and the rituals that for him give that loss meaning. And so I understood the reading of names. It was closely linked to my own understanding of names, and it gave continued value to those who no longer have the privilege of walking among us.
Two things affected me deeply in the moment: his tears and the presence of the mother of one who was lost in the room as he marked the transition into a new chapter in his life. Soul burden is a deep responsibility and even in the midst of transition, he carried it well.
Two identities were palpably in tension that day—the continuing trauma of loss, and the burden of bearing and tending souls that often falls on those who bear the weight of spiritual care.
Soul burden—or soul care—is the responsibility borne by those who attend to the soul, who bear the burden of shepherding the living and then the dead toward the place where existential questions are replaced by the warmth and welcome of something greater than self.
Even in death, the burden to tend souls continues. Memory matters. Commitment matters. Sacrifice matters. But only so long as the living remember the contributions of the dead.
Trauma is a double-edged sword. We are invited to remember but we are also exposed to emotional imprisonment by that same trauma. Are we keeping memory alive, or are we inviting retraumatization each day?
Healthy remembrance is simply remembrance—marking time and identity through intention. Woundedness comes from reliving the loss and embracing the trauma as a constant that defines our future life.
The caregiver is like Hermes—guide of souls to the underworld—bridging the gap created by loss through an authentic sense of care for those who remain.
And yet we must also ask, who cares for the caregiver?
Capacity and spiritual depth are renewed only when the well is deep enough to sustain the caregiver through the deserts of care. Continually relying on individuals to provide capacity while that capacity is drawing from a drying well risks creating chronic effects that may endure long after the immediate need has passed.
Institutions, organizations, and communities owe it to those in the vocation of caregiving to develop deep wells of replenishment and intentional programs to monitor the effects of trauma on those at risk.
Fred Rogers did not merely teach us to look for the helpers. He spent his life and ministry building wells. He created a safe environment for people to drink and to find rest.
If we intend to keep sending the same individuals into the desert of trauma, we too must build places where they can gather and draw replenishment from the well.