It’s not dignified; it’s embarrassing, if I’m being honest—this business of growing old. It is one of the many reasons they say, “Growing old is not for the weak.” So, how do we do it with grace, and who is this measure of grace for?

When I was ten, maybe eleven, I came home one day and my dad was a wreck. He had just found out he was diabetic. My father was born with a physical handicap; he was missing his right hand. He was on disability due partially to injuries, but I suspect mainly to depression. He had lost a ten-month-old son twenty-five years earlier; he was divorced and, consequently, estranged from the church.

Food was my dad’s last refuge. It’s easy to look at it from the outside and see the fallacy in such a coping mechanism; it’s harder to consider that he never wanted to end up there, either. He was a kid once, one who smiled and was filled with hope and optimism—just like we all were.

He was already overweight and had high blood pressure, among other medical issues, and this diagnosis of diabetes seemed the cruelest cut of all. He was being told he had to give up his last bit of nostalgia and comfort in this world: the thing that reminded him of being that kid again—a candy bar.

He was distraught. He was angry and yelling—something my dad never did before or after that around me. I told him it was okay; I told him I would help him learn how to cook better meals and we could get through this. He yelled at me and said, “There’s no point. I’m dying. Just let me die.” I left and stayed gone the rest of the day, by myself, and just cried. At ten years old, I thought my dad was dying tomorrow. I had no idea how slow it would actually be.

He apologized to me when I came home. He wasn’t a monster; he was just a man trying to understand something that he couldn’t grasp. He couldn’t understand that his body was failing—that even if it would be slow, there was a finality to this thing. No matter how many people you bury along the way, you still can’t imagine that you’ll join them one day.

So, who is grace for?

Grace is for everyone. My dad needed grace in that moment and for years to come: grace to be human and to be afraid; grace to be slow to ask for help; grace to not have all the answers. I needed grace to be a kid, to be afraid of losing my dad, and to not have the answers, either. We both worked most of that out over the next seventeen years before he died.

It’s easy to analyze something from thirty-five years ago, but none of that really matters now; it’s over and done. The lesson it contains is valuable, however. Am I extending grace to those around me today? Am I letting them be where they are? Am I offering to help even when they are defiant about needing it? Am I accepting help when it’s offered to me?

I dreamed about my dad in his final days last night. I haven’t dreamed about that ever, but he was on my mind when I woke up. As I was getting ready for work, I mentioned to my wife that I still had a splinter in my finger. I didn’t say it was because I couldn’t see well enough to remove it, and she didn’t ask. She gave me the grace of not talking about it at all; she just offered to remove it, and I didn’t argue.

As she was digging it out, all I could think was that I’m grateful for her and that I hope to treat her and others the same way. I don’t need to know or point out why you need help. I just need to offer it.