Small blessings fill in the small holes

We had a small blessing tonight. A sweet young mom from our church offered to bring supper to Christi and me. We felt a little embarrassed to continue to accept the offer of food but, then again, a girl's got to eat, right? Perhaps the reason we felt embarrassed had less to do with the time it's been since John's passing and more to do with the fact that Betsy's brought supper twice before!

It started with a "you'll love my enchiladas!" and grew to "I make a good pot roast." Yes, yes, and more yes! Betsy is really a good cook, likes to share her favorite recipes, and well, we want to enjoy that kind of personal growth. :)

We accepted her offer to bring food for a third time with the caveat that she and baby Abigail had to stay for dinner. What a delightful distraction this very sweet baby was (except for when she seemed inconsolable because Noel started barking up a storm)! At six months old, she readily laid on her stomach on a towel spread out on the living room floor. It seemed a little surreal since I'm used to babies who are a little needy-er than that but, then again, it was really relaxing!

As we were wrapping up the evening, Betsy shared that her father has been diagnosed with dementia. Wow! That was a bombshell to me but Christi said he had already told her. Lloyd Killen greets me at the side door most Sundays I am in town. I've noticed that he hasn't been at the door as much lately but didn't think anything about it since I've been traveling so much.

As Betsy talked about her father, she was so respectful of his journey thus far and expressed her desire to allow him to continue to do as much with Abigail as he can. She is concerned about his inevitable deterioration but thinks that is on down the road. And several times she said, "He is still my dad." This comment reminded me of the premise of the movie "Still Alice." She may be losing her touch with reality but she's still Alice.

Lloyd Killen is still Lloyd. And he, like Betsy, is a small blessing filling in the small holes of our lives.