Sunday Best, Pastor’s Worst

It started like a big occasion. Dad wasn’t just getting dressed for church—he was preparing like it was Easter Sunday. He ironed his shirt, pressed his pants, and carefully selected his favorite outfit. In his eyes, this was church-ready perfection.

Mom, always the gentle helper, tried to explain that maybe the outfit wasn’t quite right. But in Dad’s mind, he was spot on, and anyone suggesting otherwise was dead wrong.

So off they went.

By the time they arrived, Dad’s mood was simmering. He walked into the sanctuary with that unmistakable “don’t mess with me” attitude. Mom tried to shrink into the background, praying no one would notice.

Of course, the pastor noticed. Concerned, he approached with all the compassion he could muster and asked, “How are you feeling today?”

Dad didn’t hesitate. Deadpan and loud enough for nearby pews to hear: “Not good. I have to come here and listen to you repeat yourself. You say the same thing every week. Can’t you talk about something else?”

The sanctuary fell silent. Mom’s face drained of color. If she could have vanished behind the pew, she would have. Instead, she forced a tight smile, apologized quietly, and ushered him out before things escalated.

On the drive home, Dad slowly softened. Halfway there, he turned to her and said quietly, “I’m sorry.” His mood had lifted, and he even asked if they could turn around and go back.

Mom didn’t hesitate: “Nope. Not today, sir.”

And that was that. Henrietta Leghorn had enough!

Because sometimes love means knowing when to turn the car around… and when to just keep driving.

Teaching Moment: Faith Through His Eyes

There are moments in caregiving when faith looks different than it used to.

We attend a Christian non-denominational church, but in Dad’s earlier years, there was clearly a warmth and familiarity with Catholic traditions—the rosary beads, the candles, the music. Those elements feel like home to him now. Our church doesn’t include any of that, but it doesn’t stop him.

He’ll sit there talking about the rosary, humming a hymn, and proudly tell people, “I’m not Christian—I’m Catholic,” leaving most folks puzzled and unsure how to respond. But to him, it makes perfect sense.

And honestly, through the eyes of dementia, it does.

Because for him, it’s not about the structure of belief—it’s about the feeling of belonging, the spiritual warmth of connection and forgiveness.

Here’s What I’ve Learned as a Caregiver:

1. Faith Lives in the Heart, Not the Mind. Even when words and logic fade, spiritual memory remains. The parts of the brain tied to rhythm, music, and emotion stay strong. So when Dad listens to a hymn or touches his rosary, his soul remembers something sacred—even if his mind can’t explain it.

   
   

2. Symbols Matter More Than Theology. The candles, the beads, the sound of familiar prayer—they’re sensory bridges to his past, moments that make him feel safe, grounded, and loved. Those things may not exist in our church setting, but they still live in his heart.

   
   

3. Connection Is Greater Than Correction. At first, we wanted to correct him—to remind him we’re non-denominational, not Catholic. But dementia isn’t about convincing someone of facts; it’s about meeting them in their truth. When I stopped correcting and started joining him—lighting a candle together, letting him pray how he wanted—I found more peace than I ever expected.

   
   

4. Faith Evolves With the Journey. Dementia has stripped away the complicated parts of religion and left only the purest: love, gratitude, and grace. When Dad hums a hymn or tells a stranger he’s Catholic, I’ve come to realize—it’s not confusion; it’s connection.

💗 A Note to Fellow Caregivers

If your loved one’s faith or identity seems to shift, let it. Honor what brings them peace, even if it looks different from what you’re used to. In the end, faith through the eyes of dementia isn’t about remembering the right label—it’s about remembering love. ❤️