July 21, 2026
“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” — Psalm 91:1
There is something sacred about old photographs.
Time stands still within their faded edges, preserving moments that would have otherwise slipped quietly into memory. As I recently sorted through pictures of my mother, I noticed something I had never intentionally looked for before. In photograph after photograph, she was holding an animal.
A kitten nestled against her shoulder.
A fluffy rabbit cradled in her arms.
A little dog looking content simply to be near her.
She even rode a pony with the carefree confidence of someone who wasn’t afraid to trust.
Long before dementia slowly stole pieces of her memory, my mother possessed a heart that made every living creature feel safe. She had a way of creating peace wherever she was.
As I looked at those photographs, I couldn’t help but think about our own family.
We weren’t much different.
As children, we followed her everywhere like little ducklings trailing behind their mother. Wherever she went, we went. If she sat down, we climbed into her lap. If she stretched out on the couch, we piled on top of her like a litter of playful puppies. We wanted to be close enough to hear her heartbeat, to feel her arms around us, to know that all was well.
She sang over us.
She laughed with us.
She played games, acted silly, read Bible stories, wiped tears, kissed scraped knees, and somehow made ordinary days feel safe.
Without realizing it, we were living in the picture that David painted in Psalm 91.
“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”
Children naturally live in someone’s shadow.
They don’t question tomorrow.
They don’t worry about provision.
They simply trust the one who loves them.
Before I understood Jesus as my Redeemer, I knew what redemption looked like because of my parents. Mom and Dad were our providers, our protectors, our comforters, and the steady hands that guided every uncertain step. They were never meant to replace God, but they faithfully reflected His heart to us until we were old enough to recognize our true Heavenly Father.
Our home wasn’t perfect, but it was anchored.
God’s Word wasn’t merely displayed on a bookshelf. It lived around our dinner table, in bedtime prayers, in Sunday mornings, in conversations, and in everyday decisions. Looking back now, I realize the greatest inheritance my parents gave us wasn’t financial security or worldly success.
It was the peace that comes from building a life beneath God’s covering.
That peace became our safety net.
I often say how thankful I am that God chose my parents for me. The older I become, the more I understand what an extraordinary gift that truly is. I’ve witnessed enough heartache to know that childhood wounds often echo into adulthood, shaping marriages, parenting, and generations yet to come.
God interrupted that cycle in our family.
He gave us parents whose greatest desire was not simply to raise good children but to raise children who would know Him.
Recently, another picture has helped me understand Psalm 91 even more deeply.
My grandchildren love “horse camp” run by a beautiful woman who oversees horses, ponies, goats, chickens, and dogs – some of these are rescued animals. Some of them arrived frightened, neglected, or abandoned. You can almost always identify the rescues.
They’re the ones who stay closest.
While the others wander across the pasture, the rescued animals quietly follow behind her. They wait outside the barn. They watch for her to return. They seem unwilling to let her disappear from sight.
They know exactly who saved them.
To those animals, she has become their provider, their protector, their redeemer. They rest because they trust the one who rescued them.
Isn’t that exactly what Psalm 91 invites us to do?
To remain close enough to God’s shadow that fear loses its voice.
To rest because we know the heart of the One who shelters us.
As my own children have grown and built lives of their own, I have come to appreciate companionship in new ways. Even the simple devotion of a pet carries reminders of God’s faithfulness. Their quiet dependence mirrors the dependence God desires from His children.
After my parent’s home experienced the empty nest, home never stopped being home.
There was always another invitation.
Another Sunday dinner.
Another birthday.
Another reason to gather.
All the grandchildren adored Grammy and Grandaddy just as deeply as we once had. They ran through the same doors, climbed onto the same laps, laughed at the same familiar jokes, and experienced the same unconditional welcome.
Love multiplied across generations.
Now life has gently turned another page.
The woman whose shadow I spent my childhood chasing now reaches for my hand.
Dementia has quietly reversed our roles.
The one who patiently taught me to tie my shoes needs help finding her own. The one who calmed my fears looks to us for reassurance. I find myself speaking softly, repeating simple truths, brushing her hair, holding her hand, and celebrating the smallest moments of clarity.
For just a moment, the disease loosens its grip.
Joy breaks through.
Those moments feel like holy ground.
Jesus said that unless we become like little children, we cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. He wasn’t praising childishness but childlike dependence—a heart humble enough to trust completely.
Dementia has revealed something I never expected.
As so much of my mother’s independence has faded, what remains is beautifully simple. She no longer carries the burdens that once occupied her mind. She lives in the present moment. She delights in children. She smiles at puppies and kittens. She reaches for a familiar hand. She receives love without pretending she doesn’t need it.
There is something profoundly childlike about that.
And that is where grace meets us all.
We begin life completely dependent.
We spend decades striving for independence.
Then, if God grants us long years, many of us return once again to dependence.
The circle closes.
Only now I understand what I couldn’t see as a child.
The safest place was never simply in my mother’s shadow.
It was in God’s.
She spent her life leading us there.
Now, as I gently care for her, I pray she feels that same covering. I pray every comforting embrace, every gentle word, and every quiet moment reminds her that the Lord has never stopped holding her. Just as my siblings and I were gifts entrusted to her care, caring for her has become one of God’s sweetest gifts to us.
One day the photographs will be all that remain of this earthly chapter.
But they will always remind me of a woman whose arms welcomed children, whose heart loved God’s creatures, whose home was built upon Scripture, and whose life pointed beyond herself to the only true Shelter.
After all these years, I realize that every shadow she invited us into was preparing us to recognize the greatest Shadow of all.
The shadow of the Almighty.
And there is still no safer place to rest.
