The Cookie Jar 4

In the final chapter of The Cookie Jar, Marla Jewell takes a brave step forward as Care Time Fridays quietly launches in Salmon, Idaho. What began as a memory-filled attic discovery becomes a sustainable act of hope for caregivers who desperately need rest. As Marla learns to build without burning out, she also learns to release the weight of the past and choose a future that finally includes herself. A powerful conclusion about caregiving, resilience, and the courage it takes to begin again.

Transcript

0:02

Hi friends, and welcome back to Take Care Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. This is the final chapter in my holiday storytelling series, the cookie jar, where we have followed Marla Jewel in Salmon, Idaho, a woman whose caregiving season has ended, but whose story is far from over. In the last episode, Marla learned the real cost of reopening a respite center that her Aunt Judy had started. Listened to voices of caregivers in her community, and sketching something smaller, gentler, and more sustainable. She decided to start something called Care Time Fridays. Today we step into what happens when ideas leave the notebook and begin to walk into the world. This is the last episode of the cookie jar and it is about what happens when caregiving doesn't end. It changes Marla's sitting in her kitchen early in the morning, coffee brewing, quiet, winter wind. Against the windows. Marla wakes before the alarm, but not from panic, not from a caregiving reflex, from anticipation. Her kitchen table is still covered in notes. She has a volunteer signup sheet, a facility use agreement from the church, a draft schedule for care time. Fridays a half 50 mug of coffee from last night. For years, her caregiving began with someone else's needs. Now for the first time in a long time, this morning begins with possibility. A text from Daniel sent from Boise at 6:12 AM It Reads foundation approved the pilot funds. 8,500 were officially real. Marla presses her hand to her mouth. She exhales, then she whispers. Okay, Judy, it's really happening by midweek. A small group gathers in the church. Meeting room two retired nurses, a music teacher, a former Sacagewea Ridge and volunteer who spoke at the support group, a social work intern from the hospital and one grandmother. Who says plainly? I'm not trained in anything except loving, stubborn people. Marla stands at the front hands, slightly shaking. I'm here to recruit heroes. She says, I'm here to build something that doesn't burn people out. She explains the boundaries. Four participants max. No medical care, clear schedules, backup plans, no guilt based volunteering. This is one of the hardest lessons former caregivers have to learn. Boundaries are not selfish. They're structural without them, even the most beautiful mission collapses. The volunteers nod. The retired nurse raises her hand. I quit hospice work because I was carrying death's home with me every night. She says. If I help here, I want to do it in a way that lets me go home with my nervous system intact, Marla smiles. That's exactly the kind of help we're building with this. People sign up the interest forms come back faster than Marla expected. In the next room, caregivers are signing up. There are more caregivers than Marla expected. A husband caring for his wife after a stroke. A daughter managing her mother's early dementia, a mother of a disabled son, a woman caring for both parents at once. One note stands out, written in careful handwriting. I don't even know what I would do with four free hours, but I like to find out. That sentence alone explains why respite matters more than inspiration ever will. Caregivers lose their ability to imagine themselves outside the role. Respite doesn't just rest the body. It returns identity. When Daniel returns to town, he pulls up in the driveway. You can hear his tires on the gravel A car door closing and a man carrying a laptop bag and a paper sack of takeout. But to Marla it feels monumental. Daniel's back. They review final logistics at her kitchen table. It doesn't feel like a grand opening. He says it feels like a soft reopening. She replies, that's exactly what sustainable care looks like. Not fireworks, but just reliability That night with her fireplace crackling, snow falling outside. Marla sits alone. With her thoughts. The gingerbread cookie jar sits beside her. She opens it inside our old notes, the new notes, and one final blank slip of paper. She takes it out and she writes slowly. Tomorrow we begin without promising forever. She places it inside, closes the lid, and for the first time since Judy passed away, Marla sleeps without listening for anything. On Friday, The first care time. Friday begins at 10:00 AM Four participants arrived. Not in crisis, not in an emergency, just in need of space. A man named George taps to old swing music, a woman named Helen Folding napkins again and again. A young adult with autism lines up his toy pieces with precision. No chaos, no breakdowns, just rhythm outside the window. Four caregivers sit in their cars for long minutes. Not leaving, not yet. Knowing how, then slowly they drive away. This moment when the caregiver drives away for the first time is one of the most difficult transitions in caregiving, and here's why. Their nervous system is trained to stay alert. Their identity is wrapped in monitoring. Rest feels unsafe at first. Peace feels earned. Not allowed. That's why respite often comes with guilt first not relief. Real respite is learned not granted for four hours. The volunteers enjoy themselves watching after their first four participants Four hours later, cars come back in a lot, doors open. All caregivers have arrived early. Every single one came back early. One cries, one laugh too loudly, one says nothing at all, and one whispers. I forgot what silence felt like. Marla goes to the bathroom and lets herself cry, not from grief, but from confirmation. This program is so needed. That evening after the volunteers have gone and all the participants have safely gone home to their families, Marla and Daniel cleaned the room together. No rush, no analysis. Just shared silence. You didn't disappear inside this. Daniel finally says You stayed. You stayed. You Marla exhales. Well, so did you.. There is no sudden romance. Only something steadier mutual recognition That Saturday night. The church board, gathered to vote on whether they should continue care time Fridays, and they voted to give. Marla and Daniel, a six month extension. There were no speeches. Just one sentence from the chair. You're doing something our town. Forgot how to do, you're helping without breaking yourselves. The next week. Marla and Daniel visit. The old center one last time. They walked through quietly. No plans, no pressure, no urgency, just acknowledgement. This place carried a chapter. Daniel says It doesn't have to carry the whole book. Marla locks the door, not in defeat, but in release care time. Fridays will be just fine at the church. Martha says Until. We can gather up enough money to reopen this place, but in the meantime we'll lock it up. We'll show up a couple times a month and blow off the dust. That night, Marla returns to Judy's notebook. She finds one final folded page she somehow missed. If you ever wonder whether you did enough, you did. And if you ever wonder whether stopping is the same as quitting, it's not Sometimes stopping is how we change the direction without losing ourselves. Marla closes the notebook for good. Caregiving is not just a chapter, it is a transformation. And when it ends, the world expects you to go back to who you were before, but that person doesn't exist anymore. You are someone new. Someone who now understands how fragile life is, how invisible labor works, how exhaustion, rewires love, how rest must be Relearned. Marlas story did not end With a building reopening. It ended with something much rarer. A caregiver choosing a future that includes herself marla replaces the cookie jar back in the attic for this year, not as a shrine, but as a season. She turns out the light and goes downstairs. Some stories begin with loss. But the brave ones end with permission. Permission to rests, permission to change. Permission to live again. This has been the cookie jar. Before we close the lid on the cookie jar, I just want to take a moment to speak directly to you, the caregiver listening right now. If Marla's story stirred something in you, if you recognize yourself in her exhaustion, her grief, her hope, and even her hesitation to begin again, please know this. You are not alone in this. Your quiet work matters. Your unseen labor matters and you matter, not just in the caregiving season, but after it too. And speaking of care, if you're listening to this during the holiday seasons, I created something just for you. The gingerbread I holiday respite box from Take Care of Time is a onetime Christmas box designed to wrap caregivers in warmth, comfort, and a little bit of joy. Mm. Inside, You'll find cozy gingerbread themed items to help you pause, breathe and remember yourself again, including a gingerbread mug and cocoa with a very cute spoon. A cozy holiday mystery book, gingerbread lip balm, lotion, and soap. Fuzzy gingerbread socks, a gingerbread puzzle, notebook and pen, A gingerbread cookie cutter and calming. Pinch me dough, of course, in gingerbread scent for your hardest moments. You can give this gift to a caregiver in your life who never slows down, or you can give it to yourself. That's what I recommend. With zero guilt and full permission, quantities are limited, and once this Christmas box is gone, it's gone till next year. You can order yours now@takecaretime.com because even at Christmas, especially at Christmas, caregivers deserve care too. If this series moved you, I would love to hear your story. If you have been a caregiver or if you're a caregiver right now, I want to know what part of caregiving changed you the most? What do you wish people understood and what does respite mean to you, or what do you wish it could look like? You can share your story at podcasts@takecaretime.com. We would love to hear from you because your story matters and your voice does too. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. And before I go, I wanna tell you about what's coming next. The next storytelling series is titled Six Hours. Six Hours. That's the amount of time many caregivers are given when their loved ones attend the program. Six hours to work, six hours to breathe, six hours to sleep, cry, grocery shop, sit in silence, or remember who they are. In six hours, we'll follow caregivers across a single day of rest and explore what really happens in those six hours, those six sacred hours. What do they do during that time? What does it feel like? What they feel when it starts, what they feel when it ends, and what it reveals about the lives they carry when no one is watching, because six hours can change everything or remind you just how much you're holding. That's what's coming next on. Take your Time, the Tells and the Exhales of caregivers. We'll see you next time.