After the kids grew up and scattered, my parents spent a lot of time on jigsaw puzzles. Visiting them, we would see the evidence of puzzles in progress atop the card table. The puzzles were a source of satisfaction and shared endeavor for them, and evidence of their intellectual integrity for us.

Our parents seemed to savor the completed puzzles a while, yet know when to surrender them back to the box (and not shellac them into rigid permanance). Savor, then surrender.

Remembering home

After my mother died six years ago, my father, already evidencing Alzheimer's Disease, was still able to solve 500 piece jigsaw puzzles and charm his nursing home staff. We kids were so happy to see his preserved puzzle-solving power that we ordered a Puzzle of Home – a contour-map puzzle of St. Elmo and the surrounding area. The map showed the streets where I ranged unsupervised on my bicycle, and the nearby roads to the oil field where my father made a daily living. 

Savoring strengths

I learned to savor his remaining abilities and strengths. He could walk around the lake at the park, where we both enjoyed smiling at the toddlers we encountered, hoping to speak to them.  Over time, the walks grew shorter. The upslope a challenge. Getting in and out of the car near impossible. The little losses accumulated in my heart. 

After our mother died, I was impressed by my father's adaptation to her loss. He had expressed his grief, had savored the long relationship that he so treasured, and then surrendered. Not in dismay and longing, but in soldering on. Not relenteless and destructive, but dutiful – dedicated to live as he always had. Loving God, and to loving one another. 

So, I use these little opportunities to write and savor the memories, to make meaning of what still puzzles, and then to surrender.