Dad,
Today, you told me that you’re losing your mind, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
You asked me if I had ever thought about what that must be like—losing your mind—and I said I had. I don’t know if you believed me, but that was an honest answer.
In fact, there have been several times that I’ve wondered how you must feel right now. Your mind…slowly slipping away…
How terrifying to imagine that one day your mind will disappear—and you won’t even know it’s gone.
I don’t want this for you. It’s awful to watch my once strong, robust father wither away, staring at the television day in and day out.
You taught me that God turns everything to good—so even this must have purpose, right?
When I was growing up, you were zealous for Jesus and caught up in the Word of Faith movement, the prosperity gospel, the name-it-and-claim-it message. You taught me that God expected me to spread the gospel everywhere I went, and I believed you.
There were opportunities everywhere. Swinging from the monkey bars with my classmate during recess, I seized the chance to spread your message—God’s message.
It wasn’t long before another child heard me and did what her parents had taught her: threaten to tell. So I shut my mouth, internalizing the shame.
If I continued to spread your words, I would be punished by the school. If I didn’t, God would be the punisher. I was only in second grade.
Like a sponge, I absorbed your words and the consequences of sharing them. Shame and zeal were my constant companions.
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