Longing for home: Aging and the promises of God

My parents, 88 and 89, celebrated their 62nd wedding anniversary by sharing a milkshake at the Union Dairy in Freeport, Illinois (rated 4.5 stars on yelp.com), which they had frequented when they were in their twenties. They seem to have followed each other almost lockstep in the aging process. Until recently they’d go down the hall of their assisted-living facility to the dining room together, both with walkers. Mom, who has settled into dementia in the last four years, would inevitably comment on how slow Dad was moving, although he was right behind her. “He’s getting so old,” she’d say, putting him at 78.

In the dining room, Dad would point out which resident was currently spending lots of time with a resident of the opposite sex. We joked that Dad could write a weekly gossip sheet for the community, while Mom, who often meandered through the hallways of their apartment complex, could distribute it.

They seldom get out for a milkshake now or go outside at all for that matter. Dad was weakened by a crisis in blood pressure, and now he doesn’t leave his wheelchair without help. He is more confused now, too, although the confusion alternates with sweet moments of clarity.