One of my earliest memories is of Dad coming home from work with a teacup chihuahua tucked inside his suit coat pocket. “Buster Brown” quickly became my most trusted companion. Not long after, Dad went all out for my birthday, renting a train and inviting every kid in the neighborhood—most of whom I didn’t even know. He sat in the caboose as we rolled up and down the streets, music playing while I waved proudly to passersby.
But my most cherished memories are the quiet early mornings on Lake Conway, fishing together before daybreak. Later, in high school, he took me shopping for my first formal event. Life with Dad held moments of genuine joy, but the relationship was always layered with complexity. Over time, things changed.
Dad loved animals and the outdoors. He was an active member of Arkansas Fly Fishers and played a key role in introducing the brown trout to the Little Red River. Camping with my brothers—often at that very river—was one of his favorite pastimes, and they always came back with stories of adventure. His hobbies included archery, fishing, and fly tying—some skills he passed down to my son, who still enjoys them today.
His devotion to the St. Louis Cardinals was unmatched. He recorded every game but only kept the ones they won. He was a history buff, a loyal PBS viewer, and a lover of National Geographic and Time-Life books. Sadly, he stopped reading when his eyesight declined, refusing to wear glasses.
Dad had a strong work ethic. He received numerous regional awards and later worked for an engineering firm, where he valued the friendships he built. He once told me his first job was at twelve years old. By my calculation, he worked for nearly 67 years.
He was intelligent, but not always wise. He showed little compassion toward Mom, especially in her later years. When she was diagnosed with cancer, their marriage ended in divorce. Afterward, Dad lived a reckless lifestyle that left little room for his adult children or grandchildren. God designed the family to reflect His love, grace, and joy—but in our case, it revealed a complicated mix of love, pain, pride, and heartache.
“For the wisdom of this world is foolishness to God.” – 1 Corinthians 3:19
When Mom’s cancer returned, I found myself part of the “sandwich generation”—raising teenagers while caring for an ailing parent. She moved to Russellville, and I did my best to support her. Over time, she underwent more chemotherapy than anyone I’ve known. Her heart weakened, her spirit dimmed, and my health suffered as I tried to manage everything. Depression overwhelmed her in the end, and in 1998, she passed away. After her death, communication with Dad all but disappeared.
“Honor your father and mother, that your days may be long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.” – Exodus 20:12
Then, in 2009, I received a call from one of Dad’s coworkers. Dad had begun showing up at the office in the middle of the night, believing it was time to start his workday. As the oldest child—and only daughter—I again assumed the role of caregiver.
What made it even more urgent for me was that Dad had not placed his faith in Jesus Christ. The weight of his mortality pressed on me. I knew trials often reveal where our trust lies, and I was determined to show him the love of Christ—even if his awareness came only in glimpses.
“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. ‘Honor your father and mother’ (this is the first commandment with a promise), ‘so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.’” – Ephesians 6:1-3
Soon after, Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and Lewy Body Dementia (LBD). First identified by Dr. Friedrich Lewy in 1912, LBD occurs when protein deposits—called Lewy bodies—build up in areas of the brain responsible for thinking, movement, and perception. These deposits distort the brain’s ability to process information, often leading to vivid hallucinations.
I witnessed this firsthand. One day, Dad would seem nearly normal; the next, he’d describe children playing on the ceiling or men working in his closet. The fluctuating nature of LBD makes early diagnosis difficult and often inaccurate. Living with it—or caregiving through it—is heartbreaking.
“And we urge you, brothers, admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, and be patient with them all.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:14
No family is perfect. Some wounds run deep, and reconciliation may never fully come. Scripture gives us examples—Joseph and his brothers, Cain and Abel, David’s troubled household. The Bible is filled with broken families. Ours was no exception. Trusting Jesus with your family mess is not easy—but it’s necessary.
“Let no one deceive you with empty words… for you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light… trying to learn what is pleasing to the Lord.” – Ephesians 5:6-10
Because God loves us, He desires restoration in relationships where possible. That doesn’t always mean remaining close to those who continue in destructive patterns. Each situation requires prayerful wisdom. Regardless of the outcome, we are called to live in a way that honors God—marked by love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
“Walk in a manner worthy of the calling… with humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another in love.” – Ephesians 4:1-3
Growing old is a privilege not granted to everyone. Some people age with grace; others are gripped by disease. Dementia is a thief—robbing memories, identity, and connection. It’s painful to witness, whether you’re intimately close or distantly estranged.
If you’re walking through dementia with a parent, God sees you. I know the ache, the frustration, and the loneliness. It’s a sacred kind of grief, one that God Himself understands.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind… And love your neighbor as yourself.” – Matthew 22:37-39
In the end, life with Dad was a mix of wonder and sorrow, affection and frustration. But in it all, God was faithful—teaching me, stretching me, and reminding me that even in brokenness, His love remains unshaken.
In the quiet spaces between pain and peace, I’ve come to see how God redeems even the most complicated stories. Life with Dad was far from simple, but it shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to understand. I’ve learned that love isn’t always tidy, and obedience to God often means walking the harder road—of forgiveness, of patience, of showing up when it costs you something. My hope is that those walking through similar paths will remember that even fractured families can display God’s grace. And while our earthly relationships may never be fully healed, we serve a God who binds the brokenhearted and promises restoration that surpasses anything we can imagine.
Debbie Swindell 