Engraved On the Palms of His Hands

My mother forgot my seventeenth birthday.

My junior prom had been the evening before, and I slept over at a friend’s house. When I walked through the front door with my overnight bag that Sunday morning, I fully expected a “Happy Birthday” greeting from my family, yet I received none.

Exhausted from the late-night shenanigans with my friends, I went to my room and spent a few hours catching up on sleep. That afternoon, my mom appeared in my doorway with a pool float and presented it as my birthday present. She denied forgetting my birthday, explaining that my handmade prom dress had been my gift, but I was unconvinced and angry at the lack of timely recognition.

In all the years leading up to that pivotal moment, my mother had spoiled me with birthday celebrations. Every year, she’d made me feel known and loved with kind and genuine words, a delicious and beautifully decorated cake, and perfectly selected presents that she couldn’t wait to give me.

She didn’t need to spend a lot of money on me, but the time and attention she invested in making me feel special always showed me how much she cared for me. I know now that my mom was probably already experiencing the earliest effects of early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

Fast forward seven years to the birthday before we moved my mother into a skilled nursing facility, three months after I got married and almost two years after my mother’s diagnosis. A new location for an Austin-based, Tex Mex restaurant that was my mom’s and my favorite had opened for the first time that night, and my father drove my mother, my husband, and me there for dinner to celebrate. My dad mentioned my birthday to my mom a couple of times on the way, perhaps trying to elicit a response, but she sat in oblivious silence for the duration of the trip and meal.

My heart was crushed, even though my brain knew she was already in the moderate stages of Alzheimer’s disease. My mother never remembered my birthday again. Within just a few months, she no longer recognized me as her daughter.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling you have when the person who knew and loved you better than anyone else in this world has forgotten you. It’s like the worst breakup you’ve ever experienced, but harder.

Not long after my mom forgot who I was, my brother sent me these Bible verses:

“Can a woman forget her nursing child,
that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will not forget you.
Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are continually before me.” (Isaiah 49:15–16 ESV)

At the time, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of these words from Isaiah. I was lost in profound grief, constantly distracting myself by going through the motions of managing my mother’s care. I had never truly faced my most painful thoughts and emotions. Yet through the seemingly impossible journey of watching my mother—once my closest friend—fade away in slow motion, I began to feel known in a way I never thought possible.

Jesus picked me up out of the rubble of my sorrow and self-pity, invited me into his hope and grace, and never let me go. He had known and loved me all along, and he was simply waiting for me to come home.

Jesus knows and loves me better than anyone else—better than my husband, better than my children, and better than my beloved mom.

He loves and celebrates us lavishly, in the same way the father celebrated the prodigal son, who had done absolutely nothing to deserve a party. God never forgets us, even when we choose our own selfish, hedonistic ways and neglect our relationship with him.

As he did with the chosen people of Israel, God engraves us on the palms of his hands. He watches over us as does a proud father, beaming because our successes and his are one and the same. He provides the Holy Spirit to guide us, new opportunities to grow us, and people and places to help us thrive.

Jesus will forever be our biggest fan. First Peter 5:6–7 tells us, “Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you” (ESV).

Lauren Flake writes about her journey as a wife, mom to two little girls and Alzheimer’s daughter in her native Austin, Texas, at For the Love of Dixie. Her first book, Where Did My Sweet Grandma Go? was published in 2016. She thrives on green tea, Tex-Mex, and all things turquoise.

Photograph © Chris Lawton, used with permission