There is a couple in their mid-seventies. The husband, Charles, suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. His wife is named Evelyn.

Charles has been living in a nursing home for several years. At first glance, he appears so dignified and well-kept that it’s hard to believe he’s a patient. But his brain function is nearly gone—he no longer knows who he is.

Evelyn’s daily routine begins with caring for herself in the morning. By noon, she “goes to work” at the nursing home, spending the rest of the day in that small room beside her husband. She arrives dressed neatly, and the first thing she does is sing by his bedside. The song is “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” At the sound of it, Charles—whose eyes had been vacant—suddenly brightens. He looks at Evelyn with tender eyes and reaches for her hand. But as the song ends, his gaze turns distant again, as if she were a stranger.

Strangely, the love song they once sang together in the early days of their romance still lives somewhere deep in Charles’s fading mind. Evelyn finds comfort in those fleeting moments when his eyes reflect love. On Valentine’s Day, she wrote him a letter:

“Dear Charles, Even if you never speak to me again, it’s alright. Just holding my hand is enough. In that touch, I feel your love and happiness.”

Evelyn first met Charles at an Apple Festival in a neighboring town when she was fourteen. His flustered, blushing face left an imprint on her heart like a seal. Since then, she has gathered the sacred fragments of their life together: the autumn rain on their first date, the joy of their wedding, their daughter’s school performance, Thanksgiving dinners filled with laughter, the snowy Christmas when they first visited the towering buildings of New York, the moment she held their first granddaughter. All these memories became her companions as she walked the strange road of forgetfulness alongside Charles.

In life, we often find ourselves on unfamiliar paths—through illness and death, financial collapse, children’s struggles, divorce, aging, or the burdens of community. And in those moments, we discover how deeply our lifelong faith walks with us. We begin to see, with new eyes, how precious the energy and joy of past moments truly were.

Life is something we cannot predict—not even a single step ahead.

As I was finishing this reflection, news came that Evelyn had suddenly passed away from a heart attack. She was on the phone with her daughter, preparing for Charles’s eventual funeral, when God called her home. In disbelief, I wandered through the autumn garden, stunned. Among the falling leaves, I listened again to the ticking of nature’s clock with a newly opened ear.

Now, I imagine Evelyn resting in God’s embrace, waiting for Charles. And I, too, begin my own silent, strange journey—toward the Creator who holds the timetable of my life.