Shuttle driver.  Doctor.  Janitor.  Fellow resident.  Everyone who encountered my dad heard the same story.  

“I’ve got five great kids,” he’d boast, holding up his hand, fingers spread apart like exclamation marks.  “Four daughters,” he’d say, carefully folding the fingers over, leaving a hitchhiker’s thumb—missing half its nail since that last power tool incident— “and one son. Five great kids and not a lemon in the bunch!”  

If you lingered, he would slowly recite the names, sometimes struggling but never failing to come up with all five.  
   
Though he’s been gone for several years, my sister and I still marvel at the miracle of this man we call “New Dad.” 

The father we were more familiar with was driven:  a scientist and entrepreneur, always chasing the next invention that would make him a millionaire and silence the “never-good-enough” inner voice of the boy who grew up, literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Other than the occasional memorable bout of paternal discipline, he left the child-rearing to our mother while he focused on business and loomed large but inaccessible in the periphery of domestic life.

It wasn’t until Alzheimer’s slowly and decisively shut the door on his ambitions that our dad was transformed—in the best way.   Stripped of his dreams, his car, home, health, and even his wife of 63 years, New Dad emerged with gradual acceptance, twinkle-eyed humor, and a buoyant love for family that rose like a submerged beach ball, impossible to keep down. 

Tragedy and redemptive beauty sometimes walk side-by-side.  When all else is lost, love remains, triumphant. 

“Do you want to include Anne’s granddaughter?” I asked, flipping to the next page of my mom’s well-worn address book.   
She shifted in her easy chair, trying to get a little more comfortable.   Addressing Christmas cards was quite a task.  
 
“No, she was just writing to be polite.   No need to add her to the list.” 

My mother was a prodigious correspondent.   All her life, she’d been faithful to remember family and friends’ special occasions with a note or card and to respond quickly—usually within a few days—whenever she received a letter.  In recent years, she’d embraced email, but now she was struggling to navigate the computer.   And her exquisite handwriting had grown shaky; nearly illegible.  

I’d volunteered to help address the cards and mail them for her, easing a burden that she still refused to relinquish.  

As we addressed the cards, I wanted so much to ask her about the names I recognized only vaguely.  Who were Marguerite and Jim?  How did we know the Fishman family?  Were we related to Lucille or was she a friend from bygone days?   There were stories, I was sure, for whom she was the only source: relationships which I wanted to learn of and hold close.  But, besides the real issue of her fatigue, asking those questions would have been an admission that she might not always be around with the answers.  And I firmly closed my mind’s door on that thought.
  
Before the next Christmas, she was gone.  And the stories, the relationships, the answers died with her.  As I slowly turned the pages of her address book, I grieved the loss of those friendships that she had so cherished.  I felt great sadness and regret for allowing my denial of her mortality to rob me of the opportunity to capture and carry forward precious memories and connections.  A future without my mother had been inconceivable.  I wish now I had had the courage to ask the delicate questions anyway. 
 
Because freedom from regret is an incomparable gift you can give yourself, today.   

The tension tumbles from her tiny, boney shoulders.  My mother, struggling from afflictions too many to count, still gives a beautiful smile of welcome and voices her concern for my well-being—not hers—whenever I come to visit.  Practical matters handled and conversation exhausted, I then gently massage her scalp with my fingers and watch her body go limp with delight.
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Before they moved to assisted living, our family cycled through a series of helpers to care for my mother and, on a basic level, for my father with Alzheimer’s. One day, I came over and found Crystal kneeling in front of my dad, her hands working a pumice stone vigorously to smooth his shockingly neglected feet—reminiscent of a Galilean who had once humbled Himself to tend the feet of His friends. 

I am fortunate to work with my husband, where we spend most of our day independently busy, even emailing from the next office to ask a quick question. From time to time, he’ll pause what he’s doing to come up behind me and massage my shoulders for a moment and I melt. Sometimes it is I who visits, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and sliding my hand gently along his arm in silent affection.
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When other languages of love come up short, never underestimate the power of touch.  A simple, caring touch can transcend words to speak love that goes straight to the heart.