July 10, 2026
Dad asked Mom if she would say the prayer before breakfast. She smiled and agreed. As they bowed their heads and closed their eyes, they instinctively reached for each other’s hands. Before she spoke a single word, her hand found his.
With his eyes closed, he couldn’t see her anymore.
But he could feel her.
That simple touch reached somewhere deep within him. Within seconds, tears streamed down his face. Her hand spoke a language of love where words no longer existed.
I recalled an entry Dad wrote in his journal on December 20, 2024:
“I have learned to appreciate God’s goodness to us to be able to still share the grace of life as we do. Many our age are either in a nursing home or in the grave. We are blessed.”
In the still moments of life, when all Dad hears is the rhythm of Mom’s breathing, a small act of affection carries extraordinary meaning. As he bows his heart before God, Mom’s hand reaches for his. An answer to Dad’s prayers that only the Lord fully knows—prayers too deep for words, offered through our Lord Jesus Christ to our Heavenly Father, who delights in revealing His love through something as simple as the touch of a hand.
“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”
— Romans 8:26
Dementia has taken so much from Mom, yet it has not erased sixty years of love. If anything, it has uncovered a quieter, deeper expression of it. Their love no longer depends on long conversations or shared memories. Sometimes it is simply found in a hand reaching for another.
That same love expressed itself again.
Last night, Mom put her face in her hands as she tried to eat her dinner. She gently shook her head back and forth. Dad leaned toward her and softly asked, “What’s wrong?”
She answered, “I can’t do this anymore. Will you feed me?”
Without hesitation, Dad picked up her spoon and graciously fed her each bite.
There was no frustration.
No embarrassment.
Only love serving love.
Today, Mom’s hospice nurse came for her visit. She was so gentle with Mom, and when it was time to leave, Mom wouldn’t let her go without a hug.
After the nurse left, Mom began shivering. She couldn’t get warm, even after a bowl of soup. I offered to help lead her onto the porch. Thankfully, the rain that passed through during the visit with the nurse had cooled everything down. The warm breeze and lingering humidity romantically drew Mom outside.
She eagerly pushed her walker toward Dad, touched his shoulder, and asked him to join her.
As soon as she stepped onto the porch, she smiled and said, “Okay… this is nice… This is wonderful. This is so good.”
With a long, deep exhale, she settled into her favorite chair in complete peace. Dad following behind her, found his seat beside her.
She looked over at him, reached for his hand and wrapped hers around it. She said, “Dan, I need to go. But, I can’t leave you.” She held his hand until her grip slowly weakened and slipped gently from his.
Dad turned his face toward the east, gathering every ounce of strength he had to keep the wall of tears from breaking.
I turned my face toward the west.
Mom looked north.
Then she lifted her hand and pointed.
Neither Dad nor I could hold back the tears any longer.
I quietly turned on classical music to fill the air with sounds that comfort Mom.
For the next fifteen minutes, Mom entered into worship.
Dad eventually had to step outside for his own private moment with God. Time was suspended as Mom sat with her eyes fixed on something none of us could see.
Heaven draws close, and she slowly lifted her hands in surrender. She whispered, “I see a head with a beautiful face and wide open arms.”
The peace on her face spoke another language of love.
Reflecting again on Dad’s journal entry from December, 2024, he further writes:
“Love is an amazing gift. But at this stage in my life, I am discovering another dimension altogether. It’s love that sustains us and keeps us alive with purpose, enthusiasm, and strength.”
This week, I saw exactly what he meant.
I saw love in a hand reaching for another.
I saw love feeding someone who could no longer feed herself.
I saw love holding on, even while preparing to let go.
I saw the God who walks with us through the wilderness already preparing green pastures beyond it.
As I watched Dad step outside to be alone with God, I thought about what he’s been doing this past week. He’s been digging a trench to redirect the rainwater away from the house. But I think he’s been doing far more than moving dirt. Every sweat-soaked shovel full of dirt has become a prayer too deep for words…an offering of grief placed into God’s hands.
Using a wheelbarrow, he moves the dirt to the backyard filling holes on an eroding slope. Soon he will scatter grass seed across the freshly turned ground. Planting grass in the middle of July seems almost foolish without abundant rain.
Yet that is exactly how hope works.
His tears will become the rain. And in time, what now looks like broken ground will become a green pasture.
“Those who sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy. He who continually goes out weeping, carrying seed for sowing, will surely come back with songs of joy, carrying his sheaves with him.”
— Psalm 126:5–6
And until that harvest comes, we trust on the promise of Psalm 23:1-3: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul…”
That is where love has been leading them all along—not away from the valley, but through it, hand-in-hand, trusting the Good Shepherd who is already leading them toward greener pastures.
