Loving Someone Who Is Hard to Love

 

One of the most honest things 2 Weeks in the Desert With Dad does is admit something many people feel but rarely say out loud: some people are hard to love. Not because they are cruel, but because being around them requires constant effort, patience, and restraint.

Tom Sauer never pretends that spending time with his father is easy. He also never pretends that difficulty cancels out love. The book lives in the uncomfortable space where both exist at the same time.

From the beginning of the trip, Sauer knows what he’s walking into. His relationship with his father has always been strained. There were disagreements growing up. Emotional closeness was limited. Encouragement was rare. Those things didn’t disappear with age. If anything, they resurface more clearly when there is no distance to soften them.

Living together for two weeks means there’s no escape. No leaving early. No quiet breaks. Every habit becomes visible. Every irritation has room to grow. Sauer’s father questions everything. He distrusts everyone. He resists help. He fixates on money. None of this is new, but seeing it day after day takes a toll.

Sauer doesn’t hide his frustration. He doesn’t lash out either. Instead, he practices restraint. He holds back words that won’t help. He chooses silence when arguments would only repeat themselves. This restraint is not portrayed as virtue. It’s portrayed as necessity.

Loving someone like this means accepting limits. Sauer learns that his father will not suddenly become emotionally open. He will not express gratitude the way others might. He will not soften his worldview. Expecting that would only lead to disappointment.

Instead, Sauer adjusts what love looks like. Love becomes showing up. Handling logistics. Sitting through repetitive conversations. Making sure things work even when appreciation doesn’t follow. Love becomes endurance rather than affection.

The book also shows how love doesn’t erase resentment. Sauer carries old frustrations with him. He remembers feeling unsupported in his interests. He remembers rigid expectations. Those memories don’t disappear because his father needs help. They coexist with responsibility.

This coexistence is one of the book’s quiet strengths. Sauer doesn’t force forgiveness. He doesn’t rewrite the past. He acknowledges it and keeps moving forward anyway. That honesty makes the story believable.

There are moments when humor breaks through. Not because everything is suddenly okay, but because humor becomes a coping mechanism. A sarcastic comment. A shared joke. A photo taken in jest. These moments don’t signal closeness so much as familiarity.

Sauer’s father is not tender, but he is consistent. He shows up in the ways he knows how. He shares stories. He jokes in his own way. He asserts himself even when it’s frustrating. Sauer learns to recognize these behaviors as expressions of personality rather than attacks.

Loving someone who is hard to love means lowering expectations without lowering care. Sauer does this gradually. He stops hoping for emotional breakthroughs. He focuses on what is possible rather than what is missing.

The book also touches on faith quietly, not as a solution but as a framework. Sauer hopes he shows how difficult aging parents can be and how to act toward them in a Christian way. That doesn’t mean perfection. It means patience, humility, and restraint even when it’s uncomfortable.

By the end of the two weeks, Sauer hasn’t transformed his relationship with his father. There is no emotional resolution. What exists instead is acceptance. He understands who his father is and stops wishing for someone else.

2 Weeks in the Desert With Dad resonates because it validates a complicated kind of love. The kind that doesn’t feel warm or rewarding. The kind that requires effort without immediate return. The kind that exists because walking away would feel worse.

For readers who love someone difficult—a parent, a partner, a family member—this recognition matters. It says you’re not failing because love feels hard. You’re not ungrateful because you feel exhausted. You’re just human.

The book doesn’t promise that loving difficult people gets easier. It suggests something quieter and more honest: sometimes love isn’t about feeling good. It’s about staying anyway.