More than 30 years ago, I recorded my first album.

I was a speaker during those days that had big auditorium groups. I had my album all ready from the studio. So then, I was able to get the CD to hundreds of people all over the US as well as Australia and Germany.

I was so happy about it because I was speaking to high numbers. As a result, the people in the auditoriums were all looking for my CD. That helped to get the CD out.

My CD was called “We Will Find Our Places.” There were 10 songs. And I can tell you, there were so many people who really loved the music and the words – the religious part of it spoke to a lot of people. And other people were also being spoken to with the music and the words that made them happy and not necessarily religious.

I wasn’t going around to prove myself or to establish myself as a music power person, and not to have people knowing me with ambition.

I wanted the people to understand the music and the words of all the songs.

And now, more than 30 years later, I am recording another album.

But this one is different.

Several things: #1, I was at the studio so that Shasta at home could listen to my songs of my piano. And #2, I wanted to put together the songs so that when I died I wanted to be heard with Shasta and my kids and grandkids.

If other people find out, that’s fine with me.

So I am recording this album to the family!

I realize that the songs I’ve put together so far are quite good. And I’m sure that Shasta will listen to me playing with my music. She really really loves my album. I know that she will feel the words of each of the songs via the music and she will love it all!

But there is something else happening with music for me now.

Music becomes the language for me.

I can do all kinds of things on the piano which makes me so deep. So at that point, my “language” of the piano works so good with me, my listening, and my playing.

I love doing that.

And then there’s Alzheimer’s who is taking away so many abilities. But still, I can sit at a piano and discover what is still there.

When I sit down at the piano in the studio and at home I make it just the same as before.

At this age of 71, I feel good listening to my CD of the past. I finally found it with all its songs. It was such a wonderful find.

I actually love a number of the songs – like Shine the Light, The More I Love, You Are Here, Dove of Grace, To All the World, and We Will Find Our Places. Those are my favorite songs!

I could listen to them all day long.

And I hate to say this, but even now my album is “perfect”! And I love that.

I worked hard with the studio and my piano and band instruments 30 years ago. I simply loved the whole process.

It was so much fun. And it went well!

The funny thing is that at my age of 71 I’m still ambitious and creative all the way. I love my piano and my guitars. I love to listen to music, especially my music and songs.

Alzheimer’s isn’t taking me away.

Even when my album of songs is done I won’t feel like stopping the music for me. I will want to keep on creating something that didn’t exist before.

That makes it so fun.

Because when I am with my music, everything can be a part of creativity.

I love that.

I need that.

And that music fills my heart with joy.

I will keep that to me until I simply get taken away.

Most of our lives, when something is wrong with our bodies, we assume the goal is to get better. What is it like living with a disease where “getting better” isn’t really one of the expected outcomes?

It is a declining path … all the way to the end.

When I heard about my “declining path” it was very difficult — knowing now that I was “going down” instead of “going up.” I felt very humiliated.

Yesterday there were moments where I really concentrated, restarted, tried again. But you know what happened? I couldn’t be there farther. What was happening was the brain and other factions took all these possibilities away in those moments. I felt awful.

Truly, I have felt the sensing of decline — I have felt that for quite a while. I knew that I was having difficulty with words and sentences. So when the Neurologist said I was declining, I knew this was happening for a while. I wished I could have worked with increasing of my words but they wouldn’t come. Declining is a very difficult reality.

There is a difference between knowing intellectually that Alzheimer’s is progressive and actually watching the progression show up on a test. Or, worst in my life. When people say Alzheimer’s is progressive, they mean that it gets worse over time. The disease gradually damages more brain cells, so symptoms slowly become more noticeable and affect more areas of thinking and daily life. So this will definitely be more difficult for me.

But here is what I can still do: enjoy, feel, contribute, and understand that doesn’t show up on a cognitive assessment.

I can laugh with myself and with others. I can contribute some things and not others (for example, I can talk with my adult kids — and though often it’s difficult for me, at times, I can still be with “the gang”. I can still talk with people. So I can still be a part of the people in my life.

After the appointment, Shasta and I went to a breakfast place to eat. It was very good. And our conversations were up and down. But being with Shasta was so wonderful. I was so glad I wasn’t alone. She helped me better understand all the things the doctor said.

And then, we drove to Costco and Trader Joe with full bags. And then back to our house — did we find our normal life. At least for me, I was feeling low, very low.

“Thank you, Progressive Disease.”

Almost every other time in my life when I’ve been sick, I could tell myself, “This will pass. I’ll get better” — and now I can’t honestly make myself that promise. Progressing means declining.

What am I hoping for now? If I’m no longer simply hoping to get better? What does hope mean when I’m living with something I don’t expect to recover from?

Alzheimer’s has changed what the word “progress” means. We don’t have the regular “progress.”

But here is what I can do in a good way: If progress can’t mean getting healthier, maybe it can mean becoming more accepting, more present, more loving, more intentional, or something else.

I want to be meaningful, not just for me but also for others.

I want to be helpful with others.

Maybe I can take the word “progress” and change it to “progress for others”.

There are times when life feels beautifully simple (like being in the Yuba River in the summer). And there are times when life feels difficult (like in the Yuba River in winter). For me right now, I’m living in both worlds. And here’s what I mean:

One is wonderfully ORDINARY. Emails. Writing chapters. Practicing another song. Learning new music.

The other is SACRED: Questions about the future. Conversations with family that require deep courage. The quiet work with what faithfulness looks like when there are no easy answers.

What I’m finding is that both “worlds” are both important. But it can be at different times. That’s okay, too.

It’s understandable that I feel stretched. I’m dealing with both of those connections—ordinary and sacred.

In examples: the Ordinary for me is when it’s time to write…So Write. The Ordinary is also when it’s time to practice…So Practice. And then there is the Sacred, when it’s time to have the hard conversations… So Be fully there. The future will ask enough of me when it arrives. They’re both important to me.

Jesus said, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

What a beautiful statement. Not because tomorrow doesn’t matter. But because today deserves my full heart. Right?

My music is not separate from the deeper questions I’m carrying—and those questions are huge for me. It is one way my soul breathes while carrying them.

Every chord I practice is an act of saying, “Hey, I am still here.” “Beauty still matters.” “I still have something to give.”

The future is already shaping me. Not to make me afraid. But to make me more intentional. More loving. More awake. And that’s pretty difficult at times. Isn’t it for you?

In the beginning of my diagnosis back in 2025, many of my readings were about surviving. Lately, I’ve become much more about living.

The hard questions haven’t disappeared. But neither have my purpose, my creativity, my marriage, my laughter, my work. I think that’s one of the quiet miracles of this year.

I’m not waiting for life to begin again. I’m living it. And that means that all of you can live, too. We can say for ourselves, One beautiful day at a time.

Shasta and I went to the gym this morning early. It felt great to be in there putting our bodies to work. Forty minutes later, as we were leaving, I said “thank you” to the man who works there—“Cameron”. I was so happy to do that. I felt good.

As it turned out, as I got into our car, it came to me that I had given the wrong name. I decided to go back into the gym and tell him that I had given him the wrong name. About that time, he came out to get something from his car. So I stood there and I said to him, “I’m so sorry for getting the wrong name for you. I missed it … and so I’m wanting to give the right name, Coleman.”

He received it very well. We laughed with each other. And as I got into our car, I felt so good making it right. I want people to know that I know them and that they know me. And he definitely knows me.

Why is it so difficult for some people? Why do people tend to pull away from others if they don’t know them? Why do friends so often refuse to stay around Alzheimer’s even when they are their friends?

The reality is that loneliness accelerates suffering.

Support actually feels like from the receiving side. It works.

I spoke with a woman who was caregiving her father. And she told me, her father said to her and his wife, “You CAN NOT tell anyone that I have Alzheimer’s.”

Why did he say that? He was feeling shamed. He was afraid. And he didn’t want people to know.

The irony of all this is that when someone (like the father) refuses to talk to anyone about his diagnosis—as a result, he never receives meaningful support.

I feel so sad for those who simply can’t let themselves go to others.

But even more, that daughter and his wife who were the caregivers never got support for themselves. And that’s so important in this kind of relationship.

Relationships matter even more when your brain begins to change. Identity, relationships, and the courage to stay connected empowers us who are with these kind of diseases. If we are caregivers and care-receivers, this will help us. I know it is for me, for sure.

When I got my diagnosis last February (2025), the most important thing I felt was first, being with Shasta, and then having my family to be with me – Vaughn & Mona, Natalie & Geoff, and Julian & Hidee. And then I went to my two best friends and told them about my diagnosis and how they could help me. These family and friends have been unbelievably wonderful to me from the very beginning.

And as a result, they all were able to be a part of my Alzheimer’s journey in different ways.

“Vulnerability didn’t shrink our world. It unexpectedly expanded it.”

I look around on my Facebook, Instagram, and Substack and see that 8,000 people or more are following all of us on this Alzheimer’s Journey. Did I expect that many people? Not at all! But they’re here.

Our caregiving, friendship, belonging, vulnerability, identity shifts, and what Alzheimer’s feels like from the inside—those are all here.

The thing that feels most distinctive is not that we have Alzheimer’s. The thing that feels distinctive is that we are documenting it together in real time—others are living it and the others are loving someone through it.

So I’m so thankful that so many of you are here and so many of you are commenting. You all are a part of our Alzheimer’s Journey.

What a gift. Thank you so much!

A year ago, if you had told me I would be sitting at a piano in Denver, performing original music with my friend Jonathan Hoehn playing his trumpet, and the great jazz band, all surrounded by hundreds of people, watching a documentary about our friendship and this project, I would not have believed you.

Like a lot of people, when I first learned what was happening with my brain, my instinct was to pull back. I retired earlier than I wanted to, stopped taking on work. I started saying no to things. I wasn’t sure what I could still do, and I certainly wasn’t looking for new opportunities.

But after I shared my diagnosis publicly, something unexpected happened.

People started reaching out.

Not because they felt sorry for me, but because they wanted to do meaningful things together while we still could.

One of those people was my good friend Jon Hoehn.

Jon was working on a jazz album and asked if I would be willing to be part of it. What started as a simple invitation eventually turned into a year of friendship memories, rehearsals, recording sessions, a concert, and even a short documentary that tells part of the story.

And last night all of that came together.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how many people would show up.

People flew in from out of state. People I hadn’t seen in years—and in some cases decades—were there. I had conversations with people who wanted to tell me about moments we shared years ago that I had completely forgotten but that had mattered to them. I took more photos for people last night than I think I have taken in years.

At several points during the evening, I found myself thinking, “What a life I have.”

I also know that the standing ovations probably had as much to do with what it meant for all of us to be there together as they did with anything I played on the piano.

And speaking of the piano, I should probably mention that this concert didn’t just happen.

For the last few months, I have practiced for hours almost every day. There were days when I wondered if I was putting too much pressure on myself. There were days when I felt stressed and worried about whether I could still do it.

Today I can honestly say it was worth every minute.

One of the lessons I keep learning is that hiding our struggles often feels safer, but sometimes it also keeps people from showing up for us.

When I announced my diagnosis, I thought I was sharing bad news.

What I didn’t realize was that I was also opening the door for deeper friendships, new experiences, deeper conversations, and moments like last night that never would have happened otherwise.

There is something powerful about people knowing what is really going on in your life.

Because people know I’m not going to last forever—it creates space for hugs, conversations, and new memories that might not have happened otherwise.

The people in the audience were speaking big and meaningful words of affirmation. Younger people who were students when I was their pastor, older friends from previous chapters of my life. It all just filled my cup. I wish we could do that every weekend.

Thank you to Jon, to the incredible musicians, to everyone who helped make this project happen, and to every person who came last night.

What a gift.

And what a night I’ll never forget.

I’ve been practicing my songs and I’m excited to play with my friend Jonathan Hoehn (an amazing trumpeter) and his incredible jazz band. We’ve got a great line-up for you!

Armory Performing Arts CenterBrighton, CO

Friday, June 12 • 7 PM - 9 PM

DOORS AT 6:30PM

TICKETS: CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE

OVERVIEW

Experience the premiere of “If I Only Had a Brain” - a film + live concert, celebrating resilience, friendship and unforgettable music

The evening begins with the debut screening of our short documentary, sharing the journey behind this powerful 13-track album—friendship, resilience, and the beauty of creating art in the middle of brain injury and Alzheimer’s.

After the film, the lights rise and the band takes the stage for a full 75-minute live concert, featuring the brand-new arrangements and incredible performances from the album.

Expect big energy, emotional depth, world-class musicianship, and a once-in-a-lifetime show.

This is a single-night event — the only time this concert will ever happen.

Don’t miss your chance to experience the premiere, the music, and the magic of “If I Only Had a Brain live”.

Jon Hoehn and Greg Nelson are hoping that many of you will come to this amazing music concert. You are so welcome!

But there are definitely moments when I feel sad, discouraged, or like it’s just not fair. Two weekends ago was one of those times.

On Saturday morning, as we often do, Shasta suggested it might be time for us to do our gratitude journals. We both have apps on our phones where we try to list 10 things we’re grateful for. We often go to our deck to do our gratitudes because it’s so wonderful outside.

When she suggested it, I honestly didn’t feel like it.

I told her, “I probably won’t even be able to come up with one or two things today.” And I meant it. Gratitude just wasn’t what I was feeling.

But I also know the research about gratitude. It’s one of the most powerful emotions we can practice. And it’s not something we have to wait to feel before we start.

So I opened the app, sighed, and said, “Okay…” Did it feel forced? Yes. Did the first few feel hard to come up with? Yes.

But here’s the funny thing. It didn’t take me any longer to come up with my list than it took Shasta to come up with hers. And right when I got to ten… another one came to my mind.

So I ended up with eleven.

You don’t have to have Alzheimer’s—or any diagnosis—to probably relate to this. All of us have things in our lives that we’re not grateful for yet. And sometimes those things can feel so big that they crowd out everything else.

But honestly, having a routine where we practice gratitude—whether we feel like it or not—might be one of the most important things I’m doing for my brain right now.

The Positive Psychology Article makes this so important: “Gratitude is essential for a fulfilling life, acting as a powerful tool to increase happiness, strengthen relationships, and boost physical/mental health. It shifts focus from what is lacking to what is present, reducing anxiety and depression. Regularly practicing gratitude fosters resilience, improves sleep, lowers stress, and even increases longevity.”

So I did my Gratitude list, all 11. Here are some of them:

- I’m grateful for going to the gym on Thursday morning early.

- I’m grateful for the walk with Shasta yesterday.

- I’m grateful for the birds that come to our deck to eat.

- I’m grateful for Shasta having a wonderful speech on Tuesday and then had a safe flight back home…. And on it goes.

I ended up having 11 gratitudes. And I felt so good with those. They were simple. But I was so glad to have them in my journal once I thought about them. And I will always do my Gratitudes no matter what. It’s that easy.

Nothing can be as good as Gratitudes. If you’re not doing it, try it – it will be so good for you. And my brain will appreciate it for me!

Several weeks ago, I shared a post about a Japanese practice I wanted to try. At the end of the day, you name three moments when you felt most alive.

I haven’t done it every day yet. But I’m getting there. Shasta and I have been trying to ask each other that question more often.

“What were your three alives today?”

Shasta has started to notice something about my lists.

They tend to include the same kinds of things:

Time spent with people.

Phone calls with friends.

Going on walks regularly.

Going to the gym.

Practicing a difficult piece of music.

Feeling good about a post I finished writing.

What’s funny is that while I do enjoy those things they are also the things that take the most energy from me.

Before the gym I often think, Do I really have the energy for this?

Before walks I sometimes wonder if I should just stay home.

Social plans can feel a little daunting.

Even sitting down to practice music or write can feel like work.

But when I look back at the day, those are almost always the moments when I felt most alive.

Not the easiest moments.

Not the most comfortable moments.

But the most alive ones.

Isn’t it interesting that almost all the “alives” are the best energies. We feel it. We look back on it and remember those experiences.

Maybe feeling alive doesn’t usually come from conserving our energy.

Maybe it comes from spending it on the right things.

My picture for this post is me on our deck using my binoculars. I love watching the birds fly to our deck. But a lot of time while I’m there is having to wait for them to come. And when they do, I feel so good. That’s definitely one of the “alives” that I share with Shasta when we ask for it.

So lately I’ve been asking myself a new question: Instead of “Do I feel like doing this?”

Maybe the better question is, “Will I feel more alive if I do?”

And if the answer is yes, it might be worth going anyway.

Tonight, when the day ends, I’ll ask again: What were the three moments when I felt most alive today?

You might try it too.

But, interestingly, this diagnosis typically happens for people in their 50’s, which shifts my perspective: I got up to 20 more years than many people do with this diagnosis. We can focus on what we feel is being lost, or focus on what we received.

Listen to this … I grew up in Japan and lived there for 16 years. I love the way the Japanese live and how they grow along through the years of life. Let me tell you three details from Japan (I saw this on Instagram a few days ago):

1) There is a rule called “ikki no mei” – “one small reason to live one more day.” People there don’t search for a grand purpose. As they say, “Meaning is not in scale – it’s in specificity.” One small reason to live one more day. Why not!

2 There is a special technique from Osaka University – “Katari no hoso” – for 15 minutes in the evening, you say out loud “three moments when I felt alive.” Don’t you think that would be such a wonderful moment every evening?

3) The Japanese don’t search for meaning – they cultivate it. Their experts say that “the brain stops resisting the morning. Because meaning is not the answer to ‘why live,’ but to the question: ‘What feels alive in me right now?’”

These three ways of living are remarkably good.

I started with the decline in my new diagnosis several weeks ago. But I’m moving forward with these three Japanese perspectives more and more: “live one more day”, “Three moments when you felt alive,” and “What feels alive in you right now?”

Think about this – as the Japanese say, “Meaning is not the answer to ‘why live,’ but to the question: What feels alive in me right now? Meaning becomes tangible, not philosophical. Meaning is not in scale – it’s specificity.”

So what is the word “meaning” to you? What is “meaning” to me?

“Meaning” for me brings my feeling of aliveness to me. So I am wanting to go this direction more often. Aliveness.

I still can feel grief and pain about where my decline is going. But I don’t want to stay there. I want to have more meaning to my life, in and out. So I’m working hard to keep myself in the Japanese way:

“Each day is like a tea leaf – small, but rich.”

One man in Nagoya has been greeting neighbors at the train station with hot tea for 15 years. He says “Meaning isn’t an answer. Its movement toward people.”

I’m adjusting more and more. And today, I feel grateful. I don’t know what the next years hold. But I know I’ve had good ones. Grief and gratitude can live in the same body. And I can move toward people, too. What a gift we all can give to ourselves and to others.

So what feels alive in you right now?

Shasta then uploaded my journaling into ChatGPT and asked it to help summarize all my answers and reflections back to me. And, wow, it resonated so deeply. This means so much about what I believe and what I can do in the midst of all this balancing for the heavy world I’ve now been in for a year. Hopefully, you can receive some ideas from this reading for yourselves in whatever is your own way.

A READING OF MY 2026 INTENTIONS:

“Today, I choose steadiness over urgency.

I do not need to rush to prove my worth or keep up with every demand. What matters will make itself known if I am willing to listen.

I remember that my life has weight—not because of how much I do, but because of what I’ve chosen to stand for. I let my values, not my moods, shape the rhythm of this day.

I honor the structures that support me. Notes, routines, rest, and preparation are not signs of decline—they are signs of wisdom. They help me conserve what is precious and direct it where it matters most.

I allow myself to lead without rescuing.

To be present without over-explaining.

To care without carrying what is not mine.

I accept that some things are ending, and I let those endings be clean. I choose what I will still tend in this season, and I release the rest without apology.

When I create, speak, or offer myself to others, I do so with an eye toward what lasts. I am not here to react or impress. I am here to leave something honest behind.

I trust that my way of living teaches—even in silence. How I show up, how I finish well, how I let go—these are enough.

Today I measure success by integrity.

Did I live aligned?

Did I honor my limits?

Did I stand where I meant to stand?

That is enough.

I am becoming my own steady ground.”

Which part of this reading most moves you? Which part encourages you? Which part gives you energy for your life? Which of these do you want most to experience this new year?

Blessings to you and me as we begin this new year! We can support each other. And we can stand on steady ground. We can do it in each of our own ways. A great way to start 2026.

I think that’s why the moment stuck with me. Because this has been a year with a lot of challenges. Some days I’ve felt steady, and other days I’ve felt the ground shift a bit under my feet. So sitting there, listening to everyone talk about where they found meaning—right in the middle of the tough stuff—felt grounding to me.

Later that weekend, I was watching CBS Sunday Morning and learned that Abraham Lincoln wrote the first Thanksgiving proclamation right after the Civil War. And later he made it a national holiday. But the thought stayed with me: this tradition grew stronger during one of the hardest seasons in our country.

It made sense to me. Maybe gratitude means the most when life is unsettled.

For years, Shasta and I have practiced writing down ten things we’re grateful for every week. Then we sit with coffee and read them to each other. It’s a simple ritual, but it’s helped shape the way I look at my days. And I’m realizing now that those little habits prepared me for a year like this one.

I’m not sharing this to offer advice. I’m just trying to be honest about what helped me stay upright this year in the face of my Alzheimer’s disease.

For me, gratitude wasn’t about ignoring the hard moments… it was a way of holding on to the good ones so I didn’t lose sight of them.

It may not fix everything, but it helps me notice what’s still good … and that has made all the difference this year

.

The months that followed were a blur—full of grief, fear, doctor visits, logistics, and endless conversations. It felt like I was swimming in the deep end, just trying to stay afloat.

What I didn’t know then is that there’s a calm that comes later—a big exhale.

Right now, I’m in that space. My routines are in place. My healthcare team is solid. My relationships feel deep and meaningful. The shock has softened into acceptance. I’m still at a point where I can care for myself, have conversations, and enjoy each day.

I don’t know how long this calm will last, but I’m grateful for it. It’s one of the beautiful surprises of this disease: it doesn’t always just get worse. There are seasons of peace and stability, moments when life feels wonderfully normal (even though I’m always wanting to have my words but not always getting them).

Shasta and I went on a beautiful walk in Empire Mine State Park a few weeks ago. It was so wonderful. We walked and talked the whole time. I loved it. We took pictures (two of them are here-I didn’t have Shasta in my iPhone on that walk - she has it though) to always know how this walk was for us. What a gift--a calm in the storm!

One of the advantages of being diagnosed early is that I’ve already walked through much of the grief and preparation before reaching the harder stages. I’ve been able to plan, to talk openly, to share, to love fully while I still can.

If you’re newly diagnosed—or walking beside someone who is—please hear this: it doesn’t just get worse. There are stretches of calm. There’s still joy to be found, laughter to be shared, love to be given, and peace to be felt.

This stage won’t last forever in my journey, but for now, it’s enough. And that “enough” feels like grace.

When I first announced my Alzheimer’s diagnosis, one of my deepest fears was that no one would call me anymore. I assumed there’d be an end to my coaching, speaking, mentoring, and creative work. I felt like I was being pushed into retirement — and I grieved the thought that the work I loved was over.

But as is often true, the reality has been very different.

My diagnosis — and more specifically, my choice to talk about it publicly — has opened doors I never could have imagined. One of them was this music project! Almost immediately after I shared the news, my friend Jonathan Hoehn, a powerful and professional trumpeter, called and said, “We need to record an album together to raise awareness for brain health.”

At the time, I couldn’t picture it. I didn’t know if my brain would still be up for something that ambitious months later. But Jon, who himself survived a stroke three years ago, kept the dream alive. And this weekend, surrounded by some of the best musicians in the world, we’ve started recording “If Only I Had a Brain.”

Both the album and a documentary telling this story will come out next summer. (I’ll keep you posted!) But for now, I’m taking it one studio day at a time — grateful, a little tired, and honestly in awe that this is happening at all.

Sometimes we have to let go of the picture of what we thought our life would look like… to make space for what it can become.

Even when we think a chapter has ended, life has a way of surprising us with a new song.

More to come as the weekend unfolds.

The place I was most excited to revisit in Japan was Lake Nojiri, where I spent most of my childhood summers. We were cabin #134.

So many memories live there: swimming in the lake, learning to sail, sneaking off at night to a forbidden island, gathering for big meals of corn on the cob, homemade ice cream, and edamame in the pods. As a missionary family, we moved every couple of years across Japan, but no matter where we lived, summers at the lake were our constant. It really was my childhood.

I couldn’t wait to bring Shasta to see the cabin, and I was so excited to revisit it with my siblings. But our joy quickly turned to disappointment when we learned that two cabins had been destroyed in a landslide ten years ago… and ours was one of them.

We could still climb up to the spot. We could still see the view across the lake. We could even see part of the back wall, though the jungle had nearly swallowed it up. But the cabin itself—the one we wanted to stand in front of, point at, and remember together—was no more.

And that’s how life is, isn’t it? Nothing lasts forever. Buildings fall, memories fade, people we love pass away. Visiting that place reminded me that my own life, too, is held by this truth. Which is why I want to live gratefully, intentionally, and connected as I continue my Alzheimer’s Journey - because nothing lasts forever, and that’s what makes it all so precious.

Lately, we’ve also been experimenting with inviting AI into the mix. We’ll ask it to write us a little devotional or reflection that fits what we’re feeling that day. It might sound a little funny, but it’s been surprisingly meaningful.

This morning’s reading, based upon what I've given to AI for a long time, touched me deeply—especially as I can feel myself occasionally losing confidence when I’m out in the world interacting with people. I thought I’d share a portion of it here, in case it speaks to you, too, as we go into another weekend.

“Dear Loving Presence,

Some days, it’s hard to speak.

Hard to find the words.

Hard to feel confident when so much is changing.

But remind me:

I am not here to impress.

I am here to connect.

Let me stay present.

Let me stay open.

Let me keep showing up,

even when it’s imperfect,

even when I feel unsure.

Help me trust that my love can still be felt—

in my eyes,

in my presence,

in the effort to stay close.

Let me remember:

Love doesn’t require perfection.

It just asks me not to give up.

So I will show up for each other. And that is everything.

I will keep choosing connection over perfection.

The love I’m living today will be more fluent and more powerful than any sentence. I will not give up.

Amen”

Let's all remember these words. "Connection over Perfection." Love is more powerful than anything else. We can do this together. Let's not give up.