Spring garage sales are seasonal celebrations in my Midwest town. Along with cleaning out the clutter, the high point of these community events is visiting with old friends who stop by and meeting new folks—getting a taste of the amazing difference in humanity.

“Edna” was the perfect example. I didn’t have the baby clothes she was searching for, but after visiting with her for close to an hour, I wanted to rush out and buy some for her. (Apparently my enabling includes strangers as well as family members.)

During our chat, I found out that Edna worked three jobs, one full time and two part time. The job interview she’d had that day was for a third part-time job. As Edna talked, she collected items from my garage sale, placing them on the picnic table where I sat, and told me how much her daughter could use each item for her house.

“I sure hope I get the job,” she confided. “I need it to help my daughter pay for her car. She bought a new SUV last year, and she can’t make the payments now.” She then told me her daughter was a stay-at-home mom with two children and a third on the way.

Now, I’m the first to admit I’m not a very shy person, and I probably overstep my boundaries from time to time (okay, often), but this is a matter near and dear to my heart. I had to know more about this situation. Why was Edna responsible for making her daughter’s car payment? How long had this been going on? I looked at Edna’s car, a late-model Ford in reasonably good condition from what I could see, yet far from new.

“How many hours a day do you work now?” I inquired.

She rattled off her schedule. “About fifteen hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays are short days at only ten hours each, and on weekends I only work five hours each day. That’s why I’m looking for another part-time job on weekends in the afternoons.”

My heart ached. This woman worked seven days a week! Why did her daughter need a new SUV that I was told cost almost $500 per month in bank payments—not counting gas, insurance, and maintenance? I thought back to my first car when my son had been a baby—a sturdy, used Dodge Polaris bought at a police auction. Sure, the times had changed, but when did parents start feeling responsible for supplying their adult children with vehicles better than their own at the cost of their health? How long could a woman in what I presumed to be her late fifties be expected to keep this grueling schedule? And did her daughter even care?

Perhaps the saddest part of all is the lack of recognizing this enabling lifestyle for what it is: a crippler of both the adult child and the parent. But once we do finally own up to our negative behavior for what it is—and how damaging it’s become—we won’t be able to pick up where things left off. God willing, we will feel a deep conviction in our soul to make changes, to stop our enabling behavior.