We were living in an RV back then. My wife and I had sold our home in Fort Worth and were looking for our permanent place. We set up camp and kind of settled into a routine. Work, kids, keeping up with an RV, trying to maintain some kind of stability while we figured out our next move. Life was full. Your head is down and you're just working through it.
That's when my stepmom started calling me. She thought my dad was slipping. She was seeing things change in him.
But here's the thing. We'd always said my dad had a bad memory. It was just part of who he was. So when she'd call and mention it, I didn't really think much about it. I figured, well, that's just dad. That's how he's always been.
What I didn't understand then was that it wasn't a bad memory. It was that his mind was getting too full. He'd always been the kind of guy who juggled everything, kept all the pieces in the air. But juggling all those thoughts was becoming a struggle. He couldn't hold them all anymore.
I should have listened to my stepmom. I should have taken it more to heart. She was living with him and seeing the man who always had it together start to lose his grip. But I was 1000 miles away, and when he called, he sounded like my dad. So I didn't really put it together.
Then came the call about the taxi money.
My dad called me one afternoon from assisted living in Indiana. He needed taxi money to visit someone, and I was sitting in Texas, nowhere near helpful. I told him I couldn't get him taxi money from 1000 miles away. He said, "Oh man, I forgot," and hung up.
Five minutes later, my phone rang again. It was him. "Brian, could you lend me some money? I need to get home."
I don't know what made me do it, but I said, "Dad, I already lent you money for the taxi."
He believed me.
That's when I knew the jokes were ending.
We'd always had that kind of relationship. You could mess with each other and nobody took it wrong. We riffed back and forth, made each other laugh, didn't worry about landing wrong. But this felt different. This wasn't him playing along. He actually thought I'd given him money. The punchline doesn't exist anymore when he can't see it.
Before things got bad, my dad fell at home. He ended up in assisted living to rehab, and that's when I first really saw him as an older man. This guy had always been the strong one. The provider. The one who helped everyone else. Suddenly he needed help himself.
I was visiting one night and we had this quiet conversation about God. It hit me then. He was old. Not just in years, but in a way I'd never let myself see before.
We grew up differently when it came to faith. He was raised Catholic. We never really talked about what he believed or Christianity or any of that. But sitting there, watching him vulnerable like that, I felt this pull. I needed to know he was okay spiritually. I needed to make sure his eternity was settled.
The Bible says to honor your father and mother. In that moment, honoring him meant stepping up. So I went through the sinner's prayer with him. I didn't know if it would take. I still don't know what he actually believed deep down. But I had to try.
It wasn't about having all the right answers. It was about doing what felt like my responsibility as his son. Not just in this life, but the next one too. I had to believe God would meet him where he was. That sincerity mattered more than getting all the theology perfect.
Then came the dementia diagnosis. Four years ago now. Being 1000 miles away makes it easy to tell yourself it's not that bad. When he calls, he sounds normal. We have real conversations. He sounds like my dad. So I convinced myself the diagnosis was maybe overstated. Maybe doctors get it wrong sometimes. Maybe he was actually fine.
Time passed. Weeks turned into months. Nothing seemed to change much. Or maybe things were changing and I just wasn't seeing it. Maybe I didn't want to see it. I was calling my dad often, and he always sounded like himself. We'd talk and everything felt normal. But my stepmom and I didn't talk much. So I wasn't getting the full picture of what was actually happening every day. It was easier to believe everything was okay than to sit with the reality that it wasn't. Denial is a comfortable place to live when the alternative is too hard to face.
Eventually I talked to my stepmom again.
She told me he sits in his favorite chair for hours. No music. No TV. Nothing. Just sitting there, perfectly content. I can't even imagine what's going on in his mind during those hours. What's he thinking about? Is he at peace? Is he somewhere else? Does he know something's wrong, or has that awareness already gone?
As a Christian, I've had to make peace with not understanding it. The Bible says our days are numbered. God holds them in His hands. My dad's mind might be slipping away, but I have to trust his soul is secure. God knows him completely. Loves him completely. Dementia can't touch that.
There's something about the distance that makes it easier to believe he's okay. Maybe that's grace too. Because if I sat with this every single day, if I really let myself feel the full weight of it, what would that do to me? What would I think I'm supposed to be doing about it? But faith keeps reminding me I was never in control anyway. God is. And maybe that's the real freedom in all this.
He's happy in that chair. Maybe that's merciful. Maybe God is giving him peace and not making him aware of what's slipping away. He's not scared. He's not confused and frustrated. He just is. And maybe that's more than enough.
I'm 1000 miles away in Texas. My dad is in Indiana becoming someone I can't quite reach anymore. The jokes don't land. The phone calls sound normal but mean something different now. I'm learning what it feels like to watch your parent get fragile. To know they won't always be here. To sit with the fact that you can't fix this or joke your way through it.
But you can pray through it. You can trust through it. You can believe through it.
If you're reading this and you're in that same space, you know what I mean. Maybe you're far away watching someone you love slip into dementia or old age. Maybe you're caught between doubt and dread. Between the life you're living and the parent you're losing. You're not alone in it.
The details might look different. Maybe it's your mom instead of your dad. Maybe the distance is different. Maybe you're the one there every day instead of getting phone calls. But that process of watching someone fade, of feeling helpless, of trying to hold onto who they were while accepting who they're becoming, of surrendering to a God who holds all of it in His hands. That's universal. And it's harder than anyone tells you it will be.
But it's also where real faith gets tested and deepened. Where you learn what you actually believe when everything else falls away.
Your parent's mind might be slipping. But God's got them. And He's got you too, even when you're 1000 miles away feeling like you should be doing more. That grace is enough.
