Waves of Decline

Cognitive decline sucks.

Watching a life slowly etched away is like watching waves steadily reshape the shoreline—grain by grain, day by day. Little by little, the configuration changes. The visuals shift. The familiar aesthetics fade. And yet, to the onlooker, it’s almost imperceptible. In our mind’s eye, we still see the person they used to be.

But the slow unraveling of the body and brain does change a person.

Most people don’t want to involve themselves in this kind of change—especially when it’s a decline. Diseases like Alzheimer’s and dementia steal more than memory. They alter personality, perception, and presence. And for those of us who are witnesses, there is no neat filing cabinet for the feelings that come with it.

Where do you store the sorrow of a disappearing person?

Maybe all we can do is give ourselves the grace to change the picture daily—because daily, the picture changes. It’s a slow release, a daily letting go of what once was. And it takes grace—not just for them, but for ourselves—not to fight against it.

I don’t believe we were born to die. Our minds, our bodies, our souls have no compartment for death. That’s why it feels so wrong. So painful. So confusing. Watching someone actively die—especially mentally first—is like walking through a fog with no path and no map. There’s no place to put the ache.

But then comes faith.

Our hope is that there is eternal life. Our belief is that to die on earth is to live forever because of the price paid on the cross of Calvary—a high price, a mysterious price, one I still struggle to fully comprehend. But it is my hope. A hope that one day, what has unraveled will be put back together again—restored, whole, radiant.

Until then, we live in the in-between. Between now and not yet.

And in the in-between, we let the ache deepen our roots in Jesus’ name.