The Soul Knows

We are more than bodies with brains.

A reflection on end-of-life dementia, and peace of knowing that God remains alive even in its confusion and suffering.

Serving Jesus starts with family. Judy Larson’s dad, 98, recently had to move from home care to a nursing home. She reflects on the wonder of life as the end nears.

That smell of pee is in my nostrils, so strong it almost hurts or at least feels very uncomfortable, and with that comes a worry that it might be me.

I have my own confusion. It is part of the burden of a poet’s mind; these tendencies to make connections others might not. Questions of what is me and what is them are sometimes blurred, our connections slightly irregular and less defined, I want to know you, and in that process, I see myself once again. And so, while I stand by this elderly soul, the pervasive smells of a nursing home will lead me into these very personal concerns regarding my own hygiene. My confident, capable human self wonders about me. It’s not just the smell; actually, my brain feels a need to confirm the day and make sure I know who our president is, so I keep my balance once again.

Coffee helps, and an early morning-cloud-clearing-Kentucky sky. This window opens to the sky, and here is a possible moment to take notes of this month, July, my own little methods to keep things real. I have that feeling of not being enough for myself or for anyone else. Lost. Jesus is, I know that. But I want to be, too, alongside my Jesus and to be certain of something. To be something solid in this topsy place.

I feel this possibly because my dad is lost, his mind somewhere far. He knows too, and it is scary for him. In his mind, I might be, possibly not even me, his dear daughter, but maybe I am someone posing as me, his dear daughter, Judy. He tells me his life is full of “shenanigans,” his bruised pinky toe a mystery, and might be part of the whole conspiracy against him. My daddy.

But there is still something way deep down that trusts my face, that holds my hugs and knows. Something deep inside where he knows he is a child of the King, way down deep down beyond his doubts and wonderings. Down under his failings, there is an anchor that holds. That something that is down underneath what his brain can’t manage right now.

So I hold him the best I can, which is not enough. But still, he has something more and something better in his soul, something that his brain doesn’t matter about. I do have a rather unorthodox belief that faith can be a group deal, that in this community of the saints, we can stand up when someone else might not. That we can be like the elephants and stand on either side of someone drowning in their fear, to be the faith that they might not have right now.

And so I hold him the best I can.

I have a child who once cried out in his despair, his faith lost. My desperate mother’s heart told him I would hold his faith for a little bit. Is that so crazy? But then that’s where these thoughts started. This poet’s way of understanding, this mixing of boundaries that sometimes hurts, this crossing into where we bear one another’s burdens alongside that other tremendous knowing that we must bear our own (Galatians 6).

These past two weeks, I have been with my dad in his nursing home, and these elders have influenced me ever so much. That memory care stage, how does one do that? Even for myself, with my “robust” mind, I must take note and guard my mind as it mixes in with the questions about the day of the week, the month, whether it is day or night, and where we are right now – is this the dining hall? Mr. Quin, who were you before all this “rigamarole,” this bunching of your blankets and garbled speech? Where did you work, and what was your life? Here you are with this lovely, classy wife and you, this strange little man. How does God manage this? I know he does it in the best possible way, and I must trust that. For me, this business of Memory care just makes me one more mystery. But I know for certain that you’ve prepared this table; you’ve set this before us. My dad is sitting here in the presence of his enemies at your table. You are in this deeper down, the soul part of my daddy, and I am here with you both, too, in something sacred and forever, something more solid that makes us real.

Update: Ronald Olson, a Purple Heart veteran of WWII and a career missionary to Argentina, passed on to Jesus October 9, 2023.

More about |Servant Life|

Broken Windows

Offering Grace in the Midst of Crisis

Addy Kotchakreng has been a team member at The Well for several years. He and his wife, Ann, are pastoring the newly planted church at our Connect building, called Nam Neung Gaew, which translates to “Glass of Water.” Addy shared this update and personal insights about an incident in the neighborhood this spring.

Loving People at the Bottom

Dao and Bpop, staff at The Well, explain their hearts for the broken.

Bpop and Dao live for the broken. They have a ministry to those at the bottom, the ones Jesus says his sheep normally care for. Jim sat down to interview them about their heart for the people of Thailand.

We Can’t Quit Now

There is no retirement in ministry.

Working to heal broken lives is necessarily tiring, but experience not only makes us better at caring for people, but teaches us the value and wonder of desiring God alone.