I paid my parents a visit recently after a number of years overseas, first as a military member and then as a contractor. Because I live on Okinawa, visits are far less frequent than I would like.

My father has been dealing with Parkinson’s Disease for several years now, and each time I’ve visited, it’s been a surprise to see the impact to his condition. Some years ago, it was relatively small – the involuntary shaking of his hand or the quivering of his lip. Then, more recently, there was weight loss, weakness, frailty, difficulty speaking.

For most of this year, as I understand it, my father has been confined to a bed. Cared for by my mother, my brother, and a team of hospice nurses and assistants who visit briefly every weekday. I was unprepared for the extent of his decline, even though I was rushing home to spend time with him for fear that his condition might worsen. Now he fights with hallucinations and has moments where he can’t hold down food.

Spending time with him reminiscing and interacting was deeply meaningful and important, even while it drove home how much he has changed from the physically strong man I looked up to as a child. Sitting with him, holding his hand and comforting him through a hallucination, shook me.

I know it’s often a natural cycle. The parents take care of the children who grow up to take care of the parents. (Really, my brother and his family have borne that responsibility, and I’m grateful.)

That it’s natural and common doesn’t make it easier.

During this visit, we also stopped by our old house, which is in the process of being sold and renovated. Some months ago, my brother and his wife got a condo close to them for my parents to live in, so the old house is emptied of almost everything of value except the memories.

The piano I learned to play on growing up is still there. My dad’s train set that he spent years building is still there in the basement next to my old room. The backyard is a shaded refuge under the trees we planted as saplings in our youth, which now stand tall in the sky.

There was a bittersweet parallel that I couldn’t ignore.

This old house,
A home for many decades,
Still standing,
But advanced in years,
Dented, damaged, 
Declining, nearly forgotten, 
Seemingly abandoned.

Hair disheveled like the grass, 
Long and swaying in the breeze
Limbs and muscles weary, bruised,
Cracked and crumbling 
Like the walls and stairs, 
Weakened from years of use.

Hands and arms shaking, trembling, 
Unable to hold their grip;
Pieces of loose and broken tile
Sliding about with each passing step.
Skin splotched and stretched thin,
Wallpaper torn and hanging, 
Discolored yet still warm
With better memories back then.

Struggling to maintain control,
And humbled by inability to do so,
A flooded basement warping the wood walls.
The creaking floorboards and supports
Like crackling of aged joints
That have borne more than their share 
Over many months and years. 

Stuffy air lingering throughout the house,
Stagnant, damp, a little off,  
Like ragged, labored breathing
And a respirator’s constant sound.
Every room emptied of all but frames 
Of furniture beyond repair 
Places once filled with so much life,
Now stripped and bare.
This house no longer feels like a home. 

But the outward appearance doesn’t tell
One’s history and significance over a lifetime,
Just as the frail body of an elder 
Reveals nothing of their deeds and exploits
In their prime.

Once these creaking floors that sigh
Echoed with pitter-patter footfalls
And the nurturing love of a mother
Quick to answer her child’s cries. 
Once these walls resounded, stirred 
With the laughter of children And the stern 
but loving guidance of a father.
Once the sturdy bricks and doors
Held safe a family, like strong arms
That stretched and joined 
And formed a covering
Like the interwoven branches 
Of the towering trees
That form a canopy of shade
And comforting peace
Once the keys of the dusty piano
Rang out with delight, 
Clear and strong
And filled the house with joy,
Poured out from hearts full of song.

To look at it now, 
This house doesn’t seem like much. 
In disrepair and discomfort.
Ready to be repossessed. 
But there is One who sees beyond 
What earthly eyes and thoughts assess 
Who knows the value, holds the deed,
And cherishes what He purchased.

This house may seem in shambles now
But the real renovation is nearly done
Beyond the veil, a Builder waits 
With the keys to a glorious mansion
The One who truly buys and flips
The worst of run-down properties 
Who turns their rubble into gold,
Disgraces into testimonies,
Who gathers up the ruins and
From ashes draws forth beauty
Safe and stately far beyond 
The hand of decay or disease. 
Broken structures He rebuilds
Remakes, revives, restores, until 
Souls stand alight with glory filled 
Before the Throne; their voices tell,
With faith made sight, yes, it is well.