I don’t think I’ve ever really written about my father. I’ve told my journal some things, but not like this.

My father is an incredible man. I’ve always believed his life story should be a screenplay, such a fascinating life he’s led.

He is soft-spoken and humble. He’s an artist; all his life he’s worked with his hands, be it with paint, wood, tools. He’s a maker, and I learned it from him.

He’s gifted with wit, and I learned that from him too, perhaps to my mother’s chagrin. His dry humour is one of many things I inherited from his English homeland.

He has Alzheimer’s. And the odd thing is, because of that I’m realizing that I have lost memories as well – memories of him when he was more himself. As a child, you don’t think to yourself, “I really ought to soak this all in. I should remember what Dad did today. I should consider his self, who he is, and treasure our time together.” But when your dad starts to change, and you realize you’re losing him, that’s when you try to remember what he used to be like.

I would never have put these words to it then, but I think the father of my childhood was a man who wore life lightly. He cared immensely about important things, political and spiritual. His conversion experience to Christianity and all that came before and after made him very serious about his faith and about the reality of God and darkness and salvation. He would study Scripture earnestly. He loved to talk about what he had read, what he learned. Yes, he was completely serious about God. But joyfully so. I remember so many moments listening to him share some wonderful truth, with an amazement in his voice, a gratitude. I learned wonder from him too, it would seem.

But still, he worried less about things non-eternal. He loved to play and to make jokes, to laugh. He wasn’t always responsible, and I remember that causing some problems. But I wonder if he just wasn’t worried. He just trusted God. My mom may have a different take on it, as I’m sure I would if I had understood more.

Good grief, I love my dad so much. I love who he was, but also who he is. He’s not the same.

I think of marriage as a solemn, hopeful pledge to actively love the person you’re marrying, as well as all the people they will be. You have no idea what they will be like; we change so much. But really, this is the way every relationship progresses. If you choose to stay in the relationship, you’re just going to see lots of different people.

That helps me when I think about my dad. We really are losing him. Increasingly, he’s forgetting names, and how to do basic things. He still enjoys puns, but they’re occasional now, and most of the time he doesn’t follow whatever conversation is happening around him. He’s a different person. But we all are, aren’t we? I feel I’m unrecognizable from the me of 5 years ago, mid-college. He’s different, and I feel I’m losing him, but he would be different from his old self, even if he had all his vigor and presence of mind.

So this is the father I’m meant to have right now. It’s far from what I want. It is painful to see someone you love decline. And, he’s a wonderful man. He’s easy-going, and he still loves to laugh. He’s hard to reach in an intimate way, but he still understands affection. This is the father I have now, and I’m grateful. There’s so much that’s hard about this time, especially for my mother, as she tries to find the best care for him. There’s so much that’s uncomfortable about repeating something over and over, about explaining something simple and seeing it make no sense to him, about making sure he’s included and okay. It’s different from having a father with no disease. I’ll be honest: I don’t like it.

And I’m grateful. My sister was using this sort of phrase recently, and it helps me so much. Sometimes things that seem opposing can both exist. It’s paradox, and paradoxical things can only be reconciled in one way. I hate what’s happening to my dad. And I’m grateful for this time, for so many reasons. Our family has grown closer. I’ve learned about grief and I hope I’m growing through this. All of this is reconciled in Christ, because only in Him do I have hope and reason to be grateful. Christ understands illness; if He didn’t, He wouldn’t have worried about healing people. He considers illness to be a problem. He also has shown me so much love, such grace, and has promised health and restoration when He comes again. To remain in the despair toward which I tend when I consider my father – that would be only acknowledging one thing that’s true. That would be to live something less than true. Because there is more. There is the everyday grace, the little lights in life when my dad makes art, when he says something hilarious, when he rides his bike, when he praises God. And there is the promise of future grace, when we will be united to God, when we will all be healed for good. That is the other thing that’s true.

They don’t cancel each other out. They don’t make this whole situation neutral. This is what it means to experience life paradoxically. The tears are pain and they are joy. They are anguish and they are peace. They are love, both in grief and in gratitude.

Life is rich and full and raw, and my heart is trying to figure it out.

There are seasons of life that feel like endless uphill climbs, whether by circumstances or internal challenges. Today I find myself asking God, “How will I ever grow? When will I learn and change? Will I ever be more like You? What is my role in all of this?” And God spoke to my heart, “Seek Me in the morning. Day after day. Until it becomes your second nature and your first desire.”

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Sometimes we can’t have all the answers we want. We aren’t called to know everything; we’re called to rest in and know the One who has always known everything. Sometimes God gives us a path that simply requires the next step, and then the next, so that faithfulness in these little pieces of our days can blossom into grand stories — when we look back and see everything differently, see how transformed we are — and when we make that last steep scramble finally, to gasp at the glorious view from the top of the mountain, with a much greater understanding of the journey.

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“But for now,” God tells me, “seek Me first.”

Her gifts are not my gifts.

Her artistic ability is ridiculous. Her creativity is unique and unparalleled. She paints and draws wonders beyond imagination, and photographs animals at such a close range like some creature-whisperer.

I wish I could do that. I can’t.

But I do make things with my hands, and they are a different beautiful. Words here and there, and music, and objects, and food, and massages. And even if I didn’t make things with my hands, whatever I could create in any way would be worship. It’s all worship, is art.

I don’t need to be able to make art like hers.

It’s all worship. Some art praises colours, some glorifies the human form. Some bows to existentialism or philosophies, and other adores creation itself. But her art … it exalts the Creator in all His splendour and grace and power and love.

And so if my art can do that, if my gifts, varied, limited, particular, vast – if they can glory in God, if they can show the world something of Him. If what I create can shamelessly give all credit to my Creator. If my hands and my life speak of Christ, His beauty, His love, His goodness.

Then I’ll be on the right track.

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Friends, this is the artist who inspired this post and inspires me still: https://instagram.com/hannahjesus/, http://www.hannahjesus.com/. You can get a glimpse of her in the photo above, credit to her. She is a dear friend and a lover of beauty.