My mother was my first theology teacher

It was my mother’s 90th birthday party, held in one of those restaurants called something like “The Abbey.” The res­taurant moved into an old church building after the congregation moved out or died out. My mother spent her entire adult life as a church lady, so I couldn’t figure out if my brother and I had found the perfect setting for her party or the worst one. My mother, like the church building, is not what she used to be.

Since her last stroke, dementia frequently overwhelms her, leaving her unsure of the people and the world around her. But often something trivial will break through the clouds, and she’ll cling to it by talking about it over and over. I recently spent more than an hour listening to her remind me that February is a very short month. Sometimes she doesn’t know my brother and me, though more often she just gets us mixed up.

Other family and friends joined us at the restaurant. Mom was happy to be there, I think, but it bothered her that she ­wasn’t clear about her responsibilities. It was painful to watch this genteel southern woman, who was once the pastor’s wife and who always had exactly the right gracious response, struggle as she tried to be the hostess for her own birthday party.