We are invited to the Journey Mennonite Church – a group of Christ-followers who share some of the Amish beliefs and ancestral beginnings. Simple values. The Bible as its guidebook. Friendly folks who shake our hands and treat us like family.

The church is an old structure, repurposed for more contemporary worship. We wear our blue jeans and T-shirts, comfy shoes and no one cares. So different from the traditions of my past. I like it. I know that even Reverend G would feel welcome here.

This modern group of believers includes many young families, and they keep the children with them in worship. I love that. The children learn how to pray and how to serve. The young ones are in charge of passing red buckets for the offering.

This is a sad day for this body as they say good-bye to a pastor. He is leaving to tend to family dynamics in another state. A brave man, committed to God’s will. A valiant church, willing to send him away.

God will fill the gap, send another to minister to these sheep, to ease their grieving hearts.

God also fills the gap in me as we worship together. First, we sing the contemporary praises with guitar and voice, then we move into a couple of hymns. My soul gasps as the words of one of my favorite hymns project onto the wall.

“When peace like a river attendeth my soul. When sorrows like sea billows roll. Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, it is well. It is well with my soul.”

As the chorus builds, the guitar is silenced and we sing in the six-part harmony of my youth. Worship comes easy within such beauty. The blending voices of young couples, us graying folks and the next generation – all together in one spirit praise God that all is well.

I raise my hands even as my throat fills with tears. The Alpha and Omega of my soul is in this place.  Worship swells in abundance as the chords build a crescendo within this aging building.

And I know that wherever I am, whether on sabbatical in the small town of Yoder or on ministry duty in the busy-ness of Kansas City – it is indeed well with my soul.

Within the respite of our sabbatical visit, we eat well, laugh and tell stories. My friends and I, on this girlfriend weekend in Yoder, Kansas – we catch up on twenty years of lifetimes with each other and without.

Once we lived in the same town, worshipped together, hurt each other unintentionally and built a relationship that still lives today. We have grown older, forgiven each other and ourselves, learned to be women of God.

I wonder if my friends realize all they mean to me. Have I told them so? Do these friends of sabbatical know how much I need their hugs and laughter, their friendship and joy as we walk among the Amish shops and eat in quaint restaurants – the harvest of natural products and the joy of companionship?

We browse through a hardware store that is equipped with Radio Flyer wagons, butter crocks and filaments for kerosene lanterns – all the things an Amish family might need. A man stands at the counter, his long white beard and black hat pegging him as unique to the world and special to God. An Amish farmer. He leaves the store and walks toward his tractor.

This particular brand of Amish drive tractors, but not cars. They ride in buggies behind horses. Their women wear no makeup yet I would love to have their fresh, clear skin. Their children dress alike in the colors of nature: blue, pale green and brown. No accessories. Their quiet life and the peace on their faces the only accessory needed.

I envy their lives in this tiny village. No one here seems to struggle with Alzheimer’s, yet I have not seen an older person. Perhaps back home, in the white farmhouses that hide behind cedar brush, a woman like my mother struggles to remember her children. Maybe even here, families grieve through 36-hour days as they care for loved ones who sometimes forget.

A horse and buggy parks downtown next to a tractor, driven by a bearded father. The mother and children bundle into the cubby van, a small horse trailer in back. A traffic caution sign is pasted in full view, warning those of us who are the “English” and drive fast cars.

Slow down. Breathe. Take time to enjoy the living.

Sheep and cows stand like furry dots against the growing green of wheat fields. Fresh butter and hormone-free milk leads us in a discussion with a local businessman about the importance of what we eat – what we force into our bodies.

Is our food from a plant created by God? This is good. Eat it with joy. Is it manufactured in a processing plant? Danger. Avoid it.

Fresh applesauce and fruity preserves. A young mother with three little girls – all dressed alike in grey coats, blue dresses and white scarves. Worry-free faces – all of them – no worldly masks. Surely they also bear pure hearts.

And I wonder – what have we missed in the busy city with all its traffic and noisy consumption? If the city is so wonderful, then why does my soul long for another sabbatical even as I finish this one?

Surely there is purpose in both lives and both places of living.

In the city with its opportunities to serve God by helping others – so many nonprofits and churches reaching out to the teeming thousands and their hungry hearts.

In the country with its beauty and sincerity, preserving a way of life so many of us have forgotten, harvesting from the land to share its goodness with others.

Somewhere in the middle of both lives, a balance cries out and refuses to be ignored.

Learn to be still and know that He is God. Learn to serve and reach out to the harried and hurting.

But most of all, learn the difference and when the pendulum swings to the extreme, gently nudge it back toward the center.

For only when we are centered in Christ are we most effective and most content.

Only when we are “being” with Him can we share and maintain hope.

Two friends join me for this weekend away, this girlfriend time that also counts as my sabbatical from ministry.

No flipping on the TV, no computer screen bleeping messages from cyberspace. Just my friends, God and me.

Birds sing morning allelujahs and I wait for something – that cacophony of sound that usually assaults me when I open my eyes.

But here in this quiet place, I do not hear it and feel blessed by its absence.

Traffic. The roar of engines and the hurry-to-work-revving is not present in this place.

I discover the secret solace of Yoder, Kansas. Amish buggies move silently except for the clopping of horses’ hooves on the pavement – a subtle sound that speaks of contented life without the scurry of automation.

Sunflowers decorate my room, a reminder of Kansas and of vibrant life that promises to burst forth as soon as winter gives way to spring.

And I am reminded of my own personal mantra that I share in speaking venues – when life unravels, take a break.

My soul, so grieved with the hurts I hear and see each day – needs this respite. My family is thick into the caregiving of our mother who struggles through Alzheimer’s. I need this time away.

Although brief, it is like a gulp of air to a woman who is drowning in the cares of life. The reminder that life is to be lived, and I have a purpose. Yet I do not need in this quiet place to even think on that purpose or to meet the needs of anyone besides myself.

And that is okay. It is not selfish to take time for self-care.

So I listen blissfully to the stereo of Yoder sounds: the trill of the birds and the mew of a kitten, the bellow of a cow begging to be milked and in the distance – the putt-putt of a tractor on its way to the fields.

Sounds of contented life in Amish country. Sounds I miss in the city life I lead. Sounds I need to hear on this sabbatical weekend.

Should God allow my timeline to continue, He will enable and equip me to meet others’ needs again. He will pour through me the abundance of His Spirit.

But for now, he bids me rest.

He whispers to me in this early morning hour from Psalm 54:4, “God is my helper, the Lord is the upholder of my life.”

Uphold me even today, Lord. Cup your hands around my face and pour into me your healing spirit. Bless me too, my Father, with your love in this quiet place.

Dear Mom,

This Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I sent you a card. Hopefully, you will understand the words and remember who I am from my signature on the bottom. I wish I could be there with you, but since I can’t – please know that I love you and celebrate Mother’s Day with you.

I know you will not read this blog post, but I need to write it anyway – for me – as a tribute to you and as grief therapy for me.

Because I am grieving, Mom, at the slow disintegration of the woman you used to be. Your Alzheimer’s journey has taught me to value each day, love fully those who are in my life and never forget to make that love known.

But you are disappearing piece by fragile piece, and every time I see you – I am more aware of it.

So this letter to you, this blog post, is my way of telling you and the cyberspace world what you mean to me.

Many experts have written about the unique bond between mothers and daughters. We depend so deeply on each other, filling a particular emotional need that no one else can touch. I think you and I are especially close because we share some of the same personality traits, not to mention a love for Jamoca Chocolate anything.

You taught me how to bake bread, using our ancestors’ Mennonite recipe, but you also showed me how to test when the bread was ready. Bread dough wears a specific sheen and feel when the kneading ends and the rising begins. I can still bake bread by touch.

You also taught me how to crochet and embroider, making those tiny stitches that look great on both sides of the fabric. I make hand-woven gifts and pray a blessing over each project, asking God to touch the heart of the recipient. I think of you whenever I give something away.

By your example, you taught me to love books. We read 7-10 books/week, and I still love reading. So do you, even though you no longer comprehend the words and you read the same book over and over. To me, that is one of the saddest effects of this demon Alzheimer’s.

Do you know, Mom, that I am a published author? All those years of reading finally resulted in the birthing of my soul’s words. My novel, “The Unraveling of Reverend G” is dedicated to caregivers and many of the examples in the book come from my experiences with your Alzheimer’s and Dad’s dementia. I am hoping my words will encourage others.

You always insisted that we use proper grammar and by insisting that we do chores on the farm, you taught self-discipline and a strong work ethic. The weeds I pulled in the pecan orchard, the hours I spent milking the cow and helping during wheat harvest – those qualities also play into my writing life. In fact, today I am using self-discipline to write this blog post when I would rather be digging in my garden, planting yellow blooms with red centers. You taught me the value and joy of planting seeds that result in happiness.

I remember your fingers pulling my long hair tight and weaving it into the braids I wore every day. Your skills as a nurse helped keep me healthy, even when I hated taking medicine. You spread fabric on the floor, cut it into puzzle shapes and then sewed it into a dress – all for me.

You worked long hours so that I could attend the Christian high school of my choice and the college that offered the best education in my field without the burden of student loans that would follow me into adulthood. Thank you for that, Mom.

You taught me how to save money by ignoring the impulses of my peers. I learned that I didn’t have to look like everybody else or own the same things as my friends. You showed me that my value lay in who I am rather than in what I own or what I look like.

I never realized how totally exhausted you must have been after a day’s work. Even then, you cooked our evening meal and drove to school activities to cheer me on. Only the love of a mother enlists that type of strength.

Ahead of your time, you taught me that women should think on their own and pursue a career – just in case. That it’s okay to vote differently from your friends and even worship in a style, different from the norm. You taught me to think independently and not be afraid to step into the world with self-confidence and courage.

Oh, you weren’t perfect, Mom. None of us are. But even then, you taught me that perfection is not the goal. Perfection teaches that if we can’t always be perfect, we feel like failures.

Rather, the goal is in the attempt and in the perseverance to try again. Then, when we fail, we give ourselves grace, grieve a bit and go forward once again. It is in the attempts and the perseverance that our character grows, no matter what life throws at us.

Guess what? That quality also helped me become a published author.

So, Mom, on this weekend of remembrance when people buy flowers and send cards – I just want you to know that you did a good job.

And even though life has handed you a lousy disease, you’re still trying every day to put one foot before the other and learn contentment in your new apartment at assisted living.

Above all, Mom, I thank you for being so brave and I love you for showing me how.

©2013 RJ Thesman

LipReading Mom, aka  Shanna Groves, was diagnosed with progressive hearing loss after the birth of her first child. She was 27. Since then, she and her husband have added two more children who provide creative fodder for her writing. Her books include “Lip Reader” and the just-released “Confessions of a Lip Reading Mom.”    

Through her blog and speaking events, Shanna advocates for hearing loss awareness through projects such as the Lipreading Mom Captions Campaign, Show Me Your Ears, and Stop Hearing Loss Bullying. Follow Shanna’s blog at LipreadingMom.com and learn more about her other activities at ShannaGroves.com.

Q: Tell us a little about your background and how you became interested in writing.

A: My first foray into writing was in middle school when I joined the yearbook staff. One day I learned that I had won the Outstanding English Student Award for my school. A gigantic trophy and tons of writing confidence followed.

I grew up in Oklahoma and Texas and developed quite a memory for people I met and places I saw. All those memories came in handy years later when I became an aspiring novelist. Knowing how to write helped channel my feelings about living with progressive hearing loss.

Q: What led you to write “Confessions of a Lip Reading Mom?”

A: Biographies and memoirs are my favorite genre. A writing instructor once asked what was so special about my life that it warranted a book. It took eight years for my life story to materialize into “Confessions of a Lip Reading Mom.”

I had to live life, not just write about it, in order to have a story worth telling. My book is about living with hearing loss while taking care of children, living with depression, and trying to make sense out of a progressive health issue. Writing this book was my therapy.

Q: What is “Confessions of a Lip Reading Mom” about?

A: In 2001, I became a new mom to a healthy seven-pound boy. While on maternity leave, I noticed a persistent ringing inside my ears. The doctor’s diagnosis: progressive hearing loss in both ears; cause unknown. My book spans the first six years of my life as a hard-of-hearing mom.

How could I take care of my babies if I couldn’t hear their cries from the other room? Would I become completely deaf and if so, how would I communicate with my children? The doorbell’s chime, the phone ringing, and my toddler’s first words were silent.

After two years of denial, I began wearing hearing aids, but I didn’t like them. They magnified the sounds I didn’t want to hear, such as temper tantrums. Eventually, I learned to navigate the uncertain waters of hearing loss.

I became an online hearing loss community advocate, known as Lipreading Mom. This wasn’t my lifelong plan, but it is something I have come to embrace. Besides being a wife and mom, I believe my purpose on earth is to tell this story.

Q: Where can readers find your book?

A: “Confessions of a Lip Reading Mom” is available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle, as well as my publisher’s website: www.CrossRiverMedia.com.

Shanna’s contact info includes: Email sgrovesuss@msn.com Twitter www.Twitter.com/LipreadingMom Facebook www.Facebook.com/AuthorShannaGroves

Throughout this series about the LDC, I often alluded to the importance of prayer.

My personal intercessory team lifts me up in prayer before every trip to Oklahoma.

My siblings know people in their churches, their cell groups and their networks who pray for them.

Certainly, we all pray for Mom. I pray that she won’t have to suffer a long time with Alzheimers and yes—I know what that means. I know that I’m asking God to take her home where she can be with Jesus, with Dad and with her parents.

What’s the point of pretending? Mom is a strong believer. Her faith is intact even if her brain is scrambled. I pray that God will release her to go home.

Every night and sometimes during the daytime hours, I pray for my sister. I’ve seen how her health has been affected. Stress wreaks havoc on our bodies, so I pray for my sister to find relief from the pain, to sleep well and to find the joy of living.

I pray for my brother as he juggles work on the farm along with his other job, his family and the dynamics all of that brings. I pray for him special grace because he works hard, and I ask God to bless him day after day.

Then I pray for me, that I will live with grace, even as the long distance caregiver. I ask God to keep me from trying to find comfort in things of this world or an over-abundance of chocolate.

I pray that as we live through this experience, I’ll be able to write books and blog posts such as this one, to encourage my group on Facebook (http://on.fb.me/15XgKN4), to speak at churches and other groups about how to find hope when life unravels.

Because in the end, Alzheimer’s does not win. What really counts is how we deal with our family dynamics and how we stay close to each other—even when we live far apart.

What matters is how we share what we have learned. Because that is why we are here. To love God, to make a difference and to leave well.

Part of that leaving well is a legacy of wisdom and experience for those who come behind us. To let them know that even within the journey of Alzheimers, prayer is still the best thing we can do.

Living with Alzheimers and/or dementia causes a host of emotions—especially for caregivers.

Mom’s emotions aren’t that difficult. She lives in a contented land where all she has to worry about is where she put her teeth during the night and can she find her underwear the next day. Even then, somebody helps her with those questions.

But for the rest of us—whew boy! Until I entered this journey with my siblings, I had no idea of the emotions that might swirl around us.

As the LDC, there is of course, the emotion of guilt. But it is a false guilt, a self-condemnation because I can’t be in Oklahoma all the time, helping with Mom.

At the same time, I’m glad for my life in Kansas and the work I do. I’m proud of the ministry and the incredible women I help as well as my growing coaching practice and my writing life.

Guilt raises its ugly head whenever something happens, and I’m too far away to help. Then when I visit Mom, guilt rides home with me because I can drive away and my siblings can’t.

Another emotion that affects us is grief. One possible advantage of dealing with Alzheimers is that we grieve little by little rather than in one traumatic explosion. With each change and every increase in confusion, with each memory lapse, we grieve a little more.

We understand that these lapses will grow in frequency until Mom no longer knows who we are.

We also know that some day, Mom will stop breathing and this horrid journey will be over. So we don’t have to deal with a terrible shock of a tragic death. Mom dies a little bit every day, right in front of us.

Each time I drive to Oklahoma and then back to Kansas, it takes about 10 days to process my emotions, journal about them and return to some place of normalcy. I can only imagine the emotional toll on my siblings.

I don’t know if the emotions will ever ease, or if we’ll just grow in the need for more grace.

But that’s why it’s important that caregivers take care of ourselves—whether we’re right in the thick of it or dealing with it long distance.

Emotions can tear us apart or make us stronger. I hope to finish well.