Holding Fast the Confession of Hope

"Was there just," he hesitated before finishing his question, "a little boy sitting beside you, right there?"

I was perched on the edge of my dad's hospital bed, facing him as he sat in his wheelchair. It was only the two of us in the bedroom he occupied in the skilled nursing wing of my parents' retirement facility. I tried to keep an even expression as I answered, feeling a twist of regret that in pointing out reality I could be causing a degree of hurt.

"No, Dad, it's just me. Nobody else is here. Tell me, does the little boy always look the same when you see him? Is he blond? Or dark-haired? Maybe he is you as a little boy, or maybe you miss having children around."

Imagined individuals, this recurrent little boy among them, seem to crowd my father's room these days. Unfortunately, rather than providing companionship they create discomfort and even fear. Nights can be especially scary. It hurts to sense the confusion these figments bring. It is a difficult task for Dad to accept that something so very real to him is only in his mind. It is an aspect of Parkinson's we knew little about until now.

Disorientation is another facet of the disease that saddens us. "Does that door lead to the outside?" Dad might ask, pointing to one that is the sole entrance and exit to his room. Or motioning to the closet, "That leads to the auditorium. I had never seen the lower level, but I stepped off the platform last night."

Harmless misconceptions in and of themselves, but observing bewilderment in the eyes of a beloved and intelligent parent is painful. To be able to do nothing to change it and to know further decline lies ahead, devastates the heart.

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh." (2 Corinthians 4:7-11)

I am so thankful that for believers in Jesus Christ, the deterioration of our earthly bodies is preparation for eternity. I am so thankful for the hope of Heaven. Yet we are called to manifest the life of Jesus while we remain in our "mortal flesh" - and this is hard. It is hard to manifest Jesus during the hours of unavoidable alone time, despite the best efforts of loved ones to visit often and even multiple times during the day. It is hard to manifest Jesus when diapers are changed and with them all dignity seems to be stripped away. It is hard to manifest Jesus when your mind misleads you and when the Enemy's schemes assail your soul while your body is at its weakest.

And yet I have seen it done - intentionally, imperfectly, cooperatively - as together Mom and Dad live out the words of Scripture:

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near. (Hebrews 10:23-25)

They are holding fast their confession of hope in the promises of God. They are stirring each other up to good works (and good attitudes, as the case may be!) They are striving to exhibit love to the aides, therapists and nurses who attend Dad daily - even in moments of discomfort and sometimes, disagreement. They are meeting together daily in the Word and prayer. Often, they are encouraging one another through hymns of worship. 

Even so, tonight I shed tears after saying goodnight knowing Dad faced long, anxious, dark hours alone. Knowing the textbook answers for human suffering as a result of the Fall does not make it easier to watch a parent walk through the valley of the shadow of death - especially when there are long, open-ended years spent in its ever-darkening twilight. It is a reminder for me to pray for my loved one the words of Micah 7:8, "when I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me." And Psalm 18:28, "the Lord my God lightens my darkness." 

How grateful I am for a faithful earthly father. Because of him, I can trust our Heavenly Father despite not having all my questions answered this side of eternity. And I know that he can as well.