Faith, Rhubarb, and Alzheimer’s: A Flint Childhood Remembered

Focus Scripture:

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” - 2 Corinthians 4:16–17

My memories of family and Flint never fade. I remember the car ride like it was yesterday. I was just a little kid, sitting in the back seat beside my Grandma Puckett. My mom was driving, and Great Grandpa Puckett sat up front beside her. We were taking him to the nursing home. He had Alzheimer’s.

Every few minutes, he’d ask the same question, gentle and confused, “Where are we going?” And every time, my mom answered with patience and love, never showing frustration, only kindness and care. I didn’t have the words then, but I remember the ache in my heart. With each mile, I felt like we were slowly saying goodbye to the man I’d known, the man who was slipping further away with every passing moment.

They lived on Missouri Avenue, across the street from Washington Elementary in Flint, Michigan, in a small green house with a yard full of familiar comforts. In the backyard, rhubarb grew by the back fence, my grandma would pick it fresh to make rhubarb pie. I used to visit their home often, probably so my mom could go to work. This detail escapes me.

I’d lay on the davenport in their cozy living room, curled up with a blanket, watching Wheel of Fortune, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room while the scent of something cooking drifted from the kitchen. It was quiet. It was safe. It was full of love. Looking back, I realize now, those moments, though small and ordinary, were sacred.

On a Christian forum, one user shared how their grandfather, who had Alzheimer’s, suddenly spoke clearly for 30 minutes. He told them about Jesus, how he had put his faith in Christ, and why it mattered. That moment, brief as it was, sparked a journey of faith in that young person’s life. Alzheimer’s often clouds the mind, but sometimes, if only for a moment, God parts the fog and allows clarity. Those flashes remind us that the person we love is still there, and so is God.

Alzheimer’s is a disease that challenges the mind, but it also reveals the heart. In the repetition of questions and the quiet routines of care, love becomes deeper, purer. It is not always dramatic, but it is sacred. My mom's quiet patience in that car wasn't just a kind gesture. It was a reflection of God’s grace; steady, gentle, and ever-present. Even when our minds forget, God's love never does.

Life Application:

Walking with a loved one through memory loss or decline is one of the quietest acts of love, and one of the hardest. It’s not a journey of grand gestures but of simple, faithful presence. Be present with compassion. The repeated questions, the forgotten names, the stories told again and again can weigh heavily on the heart. But every calm, patient answer is an act of Christlike love. You may not be able to restore what time has taken, but your presence speaks louder than memory ever could. Sometimes the greatest ministry is not in what you say, but in simply showing up, again and again, with gentleness and grace.

Honor the small moments. Watching Wheel of Fortune side by side, baking rhubarb pie, or sitting quietly together on the davenport, these aren’t just ordinary activities. They are sacred spaces where love lingers. When memory fades, routine becomes holy. The smell of the pie, the warmth of a blanket, the sound of laughter, these are threads of connection that outlast words. God often hides His grace in the ordinary, reminding us that even fleeting moments can carry eternal significance.

There will be days when the weight feels too heavy, when grief and exhaustion blur together. Draw strength from Scripture when your heart is weary. Jesus’ invitation still stands: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). When the shadows lengthen and the road feels lonely, cling to the shepherd’s promise: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” (Psalm 23:4). God’s Word becomes an anchor when emotions drift and strength runs dry.

And remember, you’re not alone. God designed community for moments just like this. Lean into the people He’s placed around you. Let others help carry the emotional and spiritual load, just as Scripture encourages: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). Sometimes allowing others to help is also an act of faith—trusting that God’s care for you extends through the hands of others.

Through it all, grieve with hope. The outward decline is not the full story. Though the mind may fade and the body may weaken, the spirit remains in God’s tender care. Inwardly, He is still at work, refining, comforting, and preparing both you and your loved one for glory. As Paul wrote, “What we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory He will reveal to us later.” Every tear, every weary sigh, every whispered prayer is seen by the One who promises that one day, all things will be made new.

So hold their hand. Breathe grace. Treasure the sacred ordinary. Because in the quiet corners of caregiving and grief, heaven draws near; and love, the kind that never fades, becomes the truest reflection of Christ’s heart.

Closing Prayer:

Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of memory—and for the love that remains when memory fades. Thank You for the quiet strength of caregivers, for the warmth of a childhood home, for the patience shown mile after mile on a hard car ride. Help us to see Your presence even in confusion, to feel Your nearness even when things don't make sense. Renew us daily, as You promised, and teach us to love as You love—with patience, grace, and hope. Hold close those who are fading, and comfort those who care for them. Let no moment of love go unnoticed, and no act of tenderness be wasted. In Jesus’ name, Amen.