Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

Title: Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

By Fong Muntoh

In aged care, I’ve come to believe that everything — even complaints, even chaos — carries hidden grace. If we learn to look again, to listen with new ears, even frustration can become a reminder of life, connection, and purpose.

Someone once told me, “That resident complains about everything.”

I smiled and said, “That means they still know what they want.”

They can still express preferences, discomfort, and even entitlement. That’s not a burden — that’s a blessing. Silence and apathy are far more worrying.

Then there’s my dad. He’s a regular at the mahjong table and often ends up losing the money I give him. My sister once asked, “Why give him money if he just loses it?”

My reply? “If Dad can lose money, it means he’s still alive, still enjoying his days. And if I can afford to give him money to lose — that too is something to be grateful for.”

Perspective, you see, makes all the difference.

Another time, one resident came to me, frustrated. “That man’s walker is too noisy! Every time he walks past my door, it’s screech screech screech!”

I replied, “That’s actually good news. It means the man with the walker is still walking. And you, my friend, still have very good hearing.”

Two blessings in one hallway — who would’ve thought?

Even in bigger things, like when several residents checked out or travelled abroad and our numbers dropped — my management team panicked. “We need to fill those rooms fast,” they said.

But I paused and thought — what if this is God’s sabbath for us? A little window to breathe, reflect, reset. If God gives us a break, why rush to fill it? Some quiet seasons are heaven-sent.

And then, there’s the hardest to manage — family members’ expectations.

Sometimes they’re demanding, emotional, even unreasonable. But I remind myself and my team: expectations exist because they care. They love their parent or spouse enough to speak up. That love might show up as worry, anger, or even control — but it’s still love. And that love remains part of the resident’s life. Isn’t that what we want?

My team often struggles under the weight of these demands.

They feel tired, stretched, underappreciated.

But I tell them — if people are asking for your help, it means you still matter. You still have something to give. You have a job, a purpose, and a role in society. You are putting food on the table for your family, and that in itself is a quiet miracle.

As for me, I welcome complaints. I really do. Problems and issues are opportunities to teach, to grow, to serve better.

Each conflict is a doorway to connection.

Each misunderstanding, a chance to clarify and improve.

Perfection isn’t the goal. Presence is. Progress is. Grace is.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t have to be smooth to be meaningful. Sometimes, the bumps on the road are the very proof that we’re still on a journey. We’re still alive. Still becoming.

So I choose to see differently.

A noisy walker? That’s a man still moving.

A worried daughter? That’s a heart still loving.

A tired caregiver? That’s a soul still giving.

An empty bed? That’s a rest, not a crisis.

Grace isn’t just in the good days — it’s in the grind, the noise, the misunderstanding, the mess.

We just have to look again.