Learning Humility in a Hospice House

I didn’t expect God to assign “lab” work to go with the 40-day devotional I’m writing on a critical spirit.

I thought I would study the passages, trace the Greek, confess the sin, and craft something beautiful to help other women lay down their sharp words and harsh inner dialogues.

Instead, God quietly said:

“You’re serious about killing that critical spirit? Wonderful. I’ve arranged the deluxe humility intensive: living with your dying mom.”

So here I am.

The hospice bed is in the living room. The oxygen machine hums like a steady metronome. Bottles of medication line the counter next to mismatched coffee mugs. Her frail voice calls my name. Again.

And my heart, instead of instantly overflowing with gentle compassion, sometimes floods first with irritation, self-pity, and the old familiar urge to control everything.

I wanted to write about a critical spirit.

God wanted to crucify one.

Philippians 2 in a Hospice House

This morning I opened my Bible to Philippians 2, and it felt as though Jesus Himself had selected that chapter for this exact day.

“Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus,who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men.” Philippians 2:5–7, NKJV)

I’ve read those verses countless times.

But today, sitting in my mother’s home, wrapped in the strange mixture of antiseptic wipes, Christmas décor, and the smell of her favorite lotion, the words landed differently. They didn’t just describe what Christ did; they exposed how unlike Him I often am.

Recently, I listened to a Christmas message on this passage that walked slowly through the “downward steps” of Jesus’ coming — from eternal glory to a manger, from sovereign Lord to crucified servant. It was called “The Theology of Christmas.”

Today, the Lord pushed that theology into my actual, ordinary, painful life.

Jesus is not just Emmanuel, “God with us” in Bethlehem.

He is Emmanuel in this house.

With my mom.

With my sin.

With my trembling attempts at love.

And He is teaching me humility—His way.

1. Jesus Let Go of His Privileges

Before Jesus ever cried in a manger, He dwelt in eternal glory.

Philippians 2 tells us He existed “in the form of God” — fully, truly, eternally God — and yet He “made Himself of no reputation.” He didn’t cling to His status, His visible glory, His recognition. He willingly laid aside the privileges of being seen and honored as He deserved.

I’m discovering how tightly I clutch my own little “privileges”:

• My schedule.

• My beautiful home.

• My quiet time the way I like it.

• My ministry productivity and professional success.

• My desire to be appreciated, understood, and thanked (and well dressed).

Caregiving exposes just how entitled I feel to those things.

When Mom calls me for the fourth time in ten minutes…

When a day of writing turns into a day of changing dressings and sorting pills…

When fatigue sits on my shoulders like a heavy coat…

I feel the old critical spirit rise:

“Why does everything fall on me?”

“Why can’t she…?”

“Why don’t they…?”

And Philippians 2 gently answers:

“Daughter, this is where you learn the mind of Christ.

He had every right. He let them go.

Will you lay down lesser rights to love one person well?”

Humility, I’m learning, begins with open hands.

2. Jesus Took the Form of a Servant

Scripture says He “took the form of a bondservant.”

Not a celebrity.

Not a protected VIP.

A servant.

I picture Jesus, Lord of heaven, with a towel around His waist washing the dusty feet of men who would soon deny and abandon Him.

And then I look down at my own hands:

• Tucking blankets around my mom’s legs.

• Adjusting pillows that never seem quite right.

• Cleaning wounds that break my heart to see.

• Filling water bottles

• Answering the same questions again.

• Taking direction on tasks that I know how to do without directions

These are “foot-washing” moments.

They are not glamorous. No one is applauding. Social media doesn’t see them.

My critical spirit wants to whisper, “This is beneath you. You have more important ministry and work to do.”

But Jesus’ incarnation says otherwise.

He didn’t come down from heaven to stay at a distance, issuing commands.

He came near enough to touch lepers, hold children, and feel the splinters of a carpenter’s bench.

If the Son of God can put on the apron of a servant, then I can put on latex gloves and serve the mother who once served me.

Humility looks like choosing the apron over the platform.

3. Jesus Drew Near to Our Frailty — and to My Sin

Philippians 2 says He was “found in appearance as a man.”

He didn’t just act human. He became fully human. Hungry. Tired. Thirsty. Able to weep and feel grief.

Living this closely with my mom’s frailty does something inside me I didn’t expect: it exposes my own.

There is nothing like tight, emotional, exhausting proximity to another person’s suffering to reveal what still lives in your heart:

• Resentment.

• Self-pity.

• Harsh internal monologues.

• The urge to correct, fix, and control.

I’m watching my critical spirit try to resurrect itself every day:

about how she demands, how she thinks, how she processes her own dying, how others are or aren’t helping.

And right in the middle of all that ugliness…

Jesus doesn’t back away from me.

The same Savior who moved into our world of sin and sorrow is willing to move into my world of impatience and unbelief. He does not say, “Clean that up and then I’ll come close.” He steps into the mess to transform it.

Emmanuel is not “God with the put-together caregiver.”

He is God with us — in our weakness, in our failure, in our learning, in our grief.

Humility begins when I stop pretending I’m strong, and admit how desperately I need Him here.

4. Jesus Chose Obedience When Everything in Him Could Have Refused

“[He] humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.”

(Philippians 2:8)

I can’t fathom the weight of that sentence.

Jesus, who spoke galaxies into existence, chose to walk toward a cross to bear the sins of people who would misunderstand, reject, and mock Him. In Gethsemane, He prayed, “Not My will, but Yours, be done.”

Obedience cost Him everything.

My obedience, in this season, looks small beside that — and yet it still feels costly:

• Saying “yes” to another long night instead of numbing out.

• Saying “yes” to listening instead of correcting.

• Saying “yes” to serving when no one sees, rather than retreating into bitterness.

• Saying “yes” to God reshaping parts of my personality I had made peace with, especially my critical spirit.

Humility is not a mood; it’s a choice to surrender my will to His, moment by moment, in the ordinary crucifixions of caregiving:

The crucifixion of my convenience.

The crucifixion of my need to be right.

The crucifixion of my demand to be noticed.

Jesus is not asking me to go to a literal cross. But He is asking me to pick up my cross here — in this house, with this woman, in these days.

And because He walked the road first, He walks it with me.

5. The Path Down Is Also the Path Up

Philippians doesn’t end in the manger or at the cross.

“Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow…and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” (Philippians 2:9–11)

Jesus’ humiliation was not the end of the story.

The path down became the path to glory.

I don’t know precisely how God will weave this season into my story.

I don’t know how many more Christmases Mom will see.

I don’t know how many more nights I’ll refill her medicine organizer.

I don’t know how many more times the critical thoughts will flare up before they finally quiet.

But I do know this:

Every time I choose to follow Jesus down — into humility, into service, into unseen obedience — I’m not losing my life. I’m finding it.

God may not exalt me in ways anyone on earth would applaud. That’s not the promise. The promise is deeper:

• He will make me look a little more like His Son.

• He will use even this to shape me into the image of Christ.

• One day, in His presence, none of this will feel wasted.

Emmanuel in the Living Room

Christmas can be noisy and confused in our culture.

Santa and sales.

Twinkling lights and plastic nativity scenes.

The baby in the manger reduced to a seasonal decoration.

But Philippians 2 cuts through the chaos and tells the real story:

• The eternal Son did not cling to His privileges.

• He made Himself of no reputation.

• He took the form of a servant.

• He became fully human.

• He obeyed to the point of death.

• He was raised and exalted as Lord.

And that Lord — that Jesus — is with me here.

He is with you, too, in whatever “assignment” of humility you’re living:

• Caring for aging parents.

• Loving a prodigal child.

• Serving a spouse who doesn’t appreciate.

• Showing up to a hidden, faithful job day after day.

You are not simply “doing hard things.”

You are being invited into the very mindset of Christ.

“Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus…”

This Christmas, as I refill pill bottles and adjust blankets instead of attending parties, I’m beginning to see the gift hidden inside the grief:

Jesus isn’t just the baby in Bethlehem.

He is Emmanuel in the hospice house.

He is Emmanuel in my flawed, learning-to-love heart.

He is Emmanuel in every room where humility is being forged.

And slowly, painfully, beautifully, He is taking a critical spirit and shaping it into the likeness

of the One who “made Himself of no reputation”....for me.

🌿 Mark Your Calendars

✨ The Field & Feather Fire Conference ✨February 14th, 2026 Camp Aramoni, Tonica IL

10 am - 2 pm

A gathering created for women just like us —women being pruned, healed, stretched, and set aflame by the God who refuses to leave us unchanged. A morning filled with testimonies, worship, learning, laughing, and sharing. If the letter above spoke to something deep in you…then this day is for you. The Holy Spirit is moving, come hear how! Come expecting renewal. Come hungry for Jesus. Come ready for fire. SCAN the QR code for tickets.

🌾 At Field & Feather, we walk with women through every season of growth — the pruning, the blooming, and the stillness in between. We believe gratitude is more than saying thank you for blessings; it’s becoming thankful for transformation. For the Savior who refuses to leave us unchanged. Join us at www.fieldandfeatherministries.org or on Facebook.