My grandpa and I sat together holding hands, while my grandma sat nearby. We came together to visit him. Dementia has taken much of what once built his character–his words, his stories, his deep wisdom, and quick wit. As we sat with him, he drifted in and out of sleep. Sometimes he was present with us; sometimes he seemed far away. Still, we stayed. Sometimes, faithfulness looks like the simple refusal to leave, even when presence is uneven.

As I held his hand, I squeezed three times, our small code for “I love you.” After a pause, he squeezed back. It was a simple gesture, but it carried weight. Love does not disappear just because memory drifts. Relationships are not erased when cognition fades. In a world that measures worth by productivity, clarity, and reciprocity, dementia confronts us with a difficult question: How do we keep showing up when we do not know what remains?

I spoke to him and gave him updates about my life, unsure whether he was listening, but eager to connect anyway. When he slept, my grandma and I talked with each other about ordinary things. Care often unfolds with conversation and silence intertwined.

A devotional book sat on the table beside his bed. I read the page for the day out loud. The Scripture was Psalm 25:21, “Let integrity and uprightness preserve me, for I wait for You” (NKJV). As I read, something shifted. My grandfather, who had not been looking at me, lifted his eyes and met my gaze. I do not know what he understood in that moment, but I sensed he was present. What matters most is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in attention, in the simple act of staying.

The devotional reflected on waiting, on God’s timing, on the discipline of faithfulness when answers are deferred. Matthew Henry writes that God “is not bound to keep our time,” and yet remains faithful to His promises. Waiting, in this sense, is not passive. It is an active dependence. It is continuing to love, to serve, and to be present even when responses are uncertain.

Dementia is a kind of waiting. It changes the rhythm of our relationship and asks us to adapt with care. It invites us to adjust as the person we love changes and our relationship takes on new rhythms. What is required in these moments is not fixing or restoring what has been lost, but preserving dignity and choosing patience.

Sitting together, my grandmother, my grandfather, and I, was a reminder that God’s way is often quiet and relational. Like God’s timing, his way of working does not always align with our urgency. But it is no less real. Sometimes it is found in the faithful act of being with one another, trusting that even when memory fades, relationship still matters and that there is value in waiting together, in hope.