One of the unusual admissions I’ve had to make as a caretaker is that I hate the question, “What do you need?”
At first glance, it sounds thoughtful. It sounds generous. But for the one in the thick of caregiving, that question can feel like another stone added to an already heavy load. The truth is, in any given moment, my greatest need is for the issue or concern before me to be resolved. My need is not a theory—it is practical, immediate, and often too big to explain in words.
When you become the caretaker—the responsible party in a family, an organization, or a community—you become the gravitational pull of that orbit. People trust and rely on you to make things happen. They believe you have the skills, the wisdom, and the strength to hold things together. And yet, the gravity of that role often pulls you away from your own center. You become so focused on what others need that neglect—emotional, physical, even spiritual—sets in almost without warning.
That is why support for the caretaker is not optional—it is essential.
The Misstep of Asking
The question “What do you need?” comes from a good place, but it misses the heart of what it means to support someone carrying the weight of others. To answer that question honestly requires thought. It requires a pause. It requires energy to sift through the whirlwind of demands and identify one thing among many.
But for the weary caretaker, thinking itself is one more task. Recall is one more task. Decision-making is one more task. What seems simple to others is, in fact, another layer of labor for the person already overburdened.
This is why many caretakers don’t answer the question at all—or give a polite, surface-level response. It is not that they don’t have needs. It’s that articulating those needs is too costly in the moment.
Real support must take a different shape.
Elijah’s Story: Exhausted but Not Abandoned
In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah stands as a mirror for every exhausted caretaker. After his great victory over the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel, Elijah should have been celebrating. Instead, he found himself utterly spent—emotionally drained, spiritually discouraged, physically empty. He collapsed under a broom tree in the wilderness and prayed for his life to end. “I have had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” (v. 4)
Elijah had given everything he had. The tank was empty. His spirit was broken. He could no longer see past the weight of his assignment.
But notice what God does. God doesn’t respond with a lecture. God doesn’t send a vision of a brighter tomorrow. God doesn’t even ask the dreaded question: “What do you need, Elijah?”
Instead, God sends an angel. Quiet. Gentle. Practical. The angel touched Elijah and said, “Get up and eat.” (v. 5) There was bread baking on hot coals and a jar of water at his head. Elijah ate, drank, and lay down again.
And when he still could not go on, the angel returned a second time. This time the message was even more compassionate: “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” (v. 7)
With that nourishment, Elijah gained the strength to travel forty days and nights to Mount Horeb, the mountain of God. There, in the quiet of a cave, God revealed Himself not in wind, not in earthquake, not in fire—but in a gentle whisper (v. 12).
This is the picture of true care: no interrogation, no heavy demands, just sustenance, presence, and the reminder that even in exhaustion, you are not alone.
What True Support Looks Like
If you want to support a caretaker, don’t ask them to think harder. Don’t hand them another responsibility wrapped in the form of a question. Instead, remember their humanity.
Support looks like the angel in Elijah’s story—meeting needs without asking for instructions. Support is showing up with a meal when words fail. Support is folding the laundry without asking which load to start. Support is offering to watch the children or sit with the loved one so the caregiver can rest. Support is stepping in without ceremony and lifting the weight, even for a little while.
It’s not about fixing everything at once. It’s about helping someone make it through this moment so they have the strength to reach the next.
No one can continue the journey without help, sustenance, rest, and restoration. And sometimes the smallest act of care—bread and water by the bedside—becomes the very thing that allows a person to keep going.
Silent Help, Holy Help
People mean well when they say, “Take care of yourself. Get some rest. Make time for you.” But advice often falls flat because the environment isn’t right. The words don’t stick when the storm is raging.
What makes a difference is silent, holy help. The kind of help that doesn’t need recognition, that doesn’t demand a thank-you, that simply acts in love. It is in those quiet acts that the caregiver’s environment begins to change. And once the environment changes, healing, restoration, and renewal can take root.
When Elijah finally reached Mount Horeb, God came not in the dramatic signs but in the gentle whisper. Caregiver support is often like that whisper—quiet, consistent, and life-giving.
Be an Angel
Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is not to speak, but to act. To show up with food. To take on a responsibility without being asked. To sit in silence beside someone carrying the weight of others.
The angel who ministered to Elijah never asked him what he needed—the angel simply provided it. That is the kind of presence that gives life. That is what it means to be an angel in someone else’s wilderness.
Be an angel.
Closing Prayer
God of compassion and strength,
We lift before You every caregiver—those who hold families together, who shoulder unseen burdens, who quietly keep life moving for others while their own strength runs thin. We confess that too often we ask them questions when what they need is presence. Teach us to be angels—hands that bring bread, voices that bring calm, hearts that bring rest. For the weary caregiver, we pray Your renewal. For the isolated, we pray Your companionship. For the burdened, we pray Your peace. May Your gentle whisper remind them that they are not alone, and may we be faithful to embody Your care in small, quiet, sustaining ways. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Dr. Charles W. Ferguson 