Forgive me for not being incredibly passionate about the current political state of this country. (Which don’t get me wrong, I’m fully aware!)  Forgive me if I seem a little oblivious or as though I’m not participating as much as usual. Forgive me if when I see you, I completely forget to ask you how you are doing. I know I don’t really owe an apology but I am a people pleaser. Truly, I am more aware than you know.

There are a lot of things not fair about what’s going on in the world. But for me, in my little world, you know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is silently sitting on the sidelines while I watch my Dad looking at his granddaughter and I sense he’s trying to recall something, but it’s just not coming to him. What’s not fair is when my Dad, the author, technical writer, sermon writer, struggles to write the letter “H” in the word “fish”. What’s not fair is having moments where I wonder if my Dad knows who I am. That’s completely not fair! My Dad is living with dementia/Alzheimer’s/I don’t need any label to tell me my Dad is losing his memory. This is the reality but it’s definitely not a reality my family and I had ever envisioned we’d be living. I don’t write these words for sympathy. I write them because part of my grieving is to simply share my truth.

Dad has always understood my sensitive heart and he’s been the anchor that reminds me I have a heart especially when I’ve let this world knock me down. To feel like I’m losing that... IT. IS. SO. HARD. It is so hard watching the person you love struggle in this way. It is so hard already grieving as though you’ve lost something, but the person is still here. And it’s hard, REALLY hard some days to find the blessing and joy in all of this. It feels like this race against time. We’re losing something in this cruel way and it’s heartbreaking because my Dad feels this too.

I’m not angry at God, I don’t think He “made this happen”.  Some days I numb it and try to feel nothing. Some days I dwell on it. Some days are so chaotic with the little ones that I probably unconsciously put the outrageous expectation on them to help me forget this is my reality. Most days I can and want to accept this and just fully live in the moments and find joy where I can. Because honestly, what other choice do I have?

Sometimes life just feels really hard and it’s okay to be angry or sad or sometimes just nothing. But, you have to keep living; you have to give yourself grace. It’s OKAY to find joy in the midst of the hard. Because what other choice do you have? You stop living and that’s not what we were meant to do.

If you allow, it’s this hard stuff that can grow that mustard seed of faith. Right now, I have many days where it feels smaller than a mustard seed. But, how freeing to just say to God I can’t do it, I don’t know how to do it, I don’t want to do it. Please, just take care of it. And that has been my silent plea to Him for over a year now. A silent plea I should have been praying long before this. For someone who’s spent most of her life searching for understanding, wanting answers; begging God to fill me in on His plan, this has been such a heavy burden to unload. You know that moment when one of those Bible verses you’ve heard since childhood hits you in such a new way?

29Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:30)

It’s a continuous struggle to unload this burden and trust that God will take care of this. And because I’m so not used to doing that, it leaves me in “now what?” mode. My entire framework for how I want to live is being reworked. This isn’t a bad thing. In fact, I feel it’s a really good thing. It’s just that it’s one more unknown in the midst of a whole heck of a lot of unknown. And the rest part? I’m so NOT good at rest. But as I slowly unload this burden, I’m realizing just how weary I am. Sure, I’ve been physically exhausted. But weary feels like a totally different, emotional thing.

I’ve always been so hard on myself. My Dad understands that because he is that way too. But, I think that has allowed Dad to truly understand grace in so many ways and it’s a gift I’m now receiving in the midst of this HARD; an answer to the “now what?” Grace for others, sure. But really for the first time, grace for myself.

Grace for myself to rest, to admit that I’m sad, to admit that this is hard. Grace to admit that some days I need help from my in-laws because when you have three young kids, that in and of itself can be hard. Grace to not feel guilty about staying outside just a little longer on a summer night to shoot the breeze with the neighbors. Grace to accept Jon’s offer to take the girls to church so I can stay home and have some quiet because right now, sometimes church is just hard. I’m giving myself the grace to just laugh and dance with my girls; to play cribbage with Jon and have dinner with my friends. GRACE TO LIVE.

And grace for my Dad. He didn’t choose this and it breaks my heart in those moments when he’s struggling. And though they may not realize, grace for my family because we didn’t choose this and we are all losing something and it just doesn’t seem fair.

And it’s in that word GRACE, that the JOY slowly starts to creep in among these dark places in my soul and heart. Sometimes I really have to look, but it’s there. There is beauty in my husband quietly listening, giving hugs, and making me laugh. There is beauty in the people to whom I’ve reached out and they reach back with understanding because they’ve walked this road too. Beauty in the friends who understand the need to just be distracted and do something fun. There is beauty when I see my Dad quietly reach out his hand to my Mom. There is beauty in the good days when my Dad is interacting with the girls. There is beauty in the not so good days when my 5 year old asks Grandpa to color with her and he silently sits with her, even if he’s not really coloring and seems a million miles away. There’s beauty when my 3 year old bumps her foot and he holds her or my 7 year old reminds us what it means to just not have a care in the world and sometimes no filter, much like Grandpa on some days. Sometimes I really have to look, but the beauty? It’s there.

“…and He has walked with me through a mysterious unfolding. I don’t always understand or agree with. And yet, looking back, I can always see a certain kind of beauty that unfolded against all odds. I am learning, very slowly and begrudgingly, that He is making all things beautiful in its time.” Leeana Tankersley.

I wish I could be more eloquent and not so brash, but honestly there’s no other way to say it except that it’s been a pretty shitty year. And again, I don’t write this for sympathy. I write because maybe this is Dad's way of reminding me yet again of that heart I have and I rediscovered that writing is one of the best ways for me to grieve. And maybe, just maybe the hope that it will bring a little more awareness to this crappy disease.  And to remind everyone to stop, even if for a moment, and be grateful and see the beauty in your day no matter how hard it may be.

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