Dad's Alzheimers is overtaking what is really precious now.
His little blondie, Gracie, seems to be lost to him.
"Where did you grow up?" he asked her the other day.
"Dad, I'm your blondie, Gracie. I grew up in your house with you. I'm your daughter."
"No one told me that!"
He's so lost in another world, yet there sits that once wonderfully active, strong and handsome body.
He's pretty much gone.
Why does God leave him here?
What is left to us?
Whenever Gracie reads Scripture in the garden or gets out the old church hymnal to sing or asks Dad to pray, Dad is unnervingly in the moment. He is coherent, accurate, quotes Scripture, full of praise, aware of family names and needs.
Why does God leave him here with us?
So that we can see God in all His glory in this disease-ravaged, imperfect and broken vessel we still lovingly call "Dad".
A few weeks ago - maybe even as recently as this morning, to be honest - I would have said that Dad wouldn't want to live like this - in a nursing home, unable to go where he wants to go, be home with his dear wife of 56 years, drive his car, watch TV in his own family room, feed the birds, take a walk. But he is living how he has always lived - giving praise to His dear Savior.
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:16-19