Losing my Dad. Oh, so slowly…


IMG_1076Years ago, I read One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp.  The premise, that everything that happens to us is a gift, the good stuff and the tough stuff, is hard to swallow.  I have an easier time understanding the truth of it when I look backwards.  The challenge rests in being thankful for the difficulties as they happen, rather than miserably enduring them. I’ve spent a lot of the last year with my dad and, try as I might, I cannot muster up the faith to be grateful that he has Alzheimer’s. Watching him disappear into the disease is painful.  It’s been a long two years since he was diagnosed, but I am finally ready to write about it.

I was sitting in my car when my brother called with the definitive results.  “He definitely has Alzheimer’s, Joy.  We just left the appointment and it’s confirmed.”  We’d noticed stray symptoms for months, but this disease is tricky. It hid behind personal quirks, like the fact that he has always been a bit scattered, regularly losing his keys, wallet and phone.  It also hid behind his funny personality.  My dad has always been able to put everyone at ease with a well-timed, self-deprecating joke.  When he couldn’t remember where the restroom was in a familiar restaurant, he turned to me and said in a crazy radio voice, “Now if one of you kind folks can remind me where the restroom is, I’ll be on my way.” His coping mechanisms kept the truth hidden as well.  For instance, rather than admit he couldn’t read a menu, he’d ask, “What are you having? That sounds good, I’ll have that, too.”  Alzheimer’s can lurk for years before denial and blaming other causes finally stops carrying enough weight.  In my dad’s case, another disease, myasthenia gravis, caused one of his eyelids to droop and his speech to slur. A general confusion and lack of facial control associated with that disease allowed all of us to ignore his vision and depth perception problems as they began to change his capability. But at some point, we just knew in our guts something was off.

My mom went wading into the complicated world of health care to try to get help.  My dad took an assessment and the doctor discounted the results.  “This shows you can barely string words together; something must have gone wrong.”  My mom explained that the facilitator of the test was rude, and it took place in a loud setting so my father couldn’t really hear her.  The doctor ordered a new test.  However, the insurance company was refusing to pay for the first test because the rude facilitator had also miscoded it.  [Insert here months of waiting for this to be corrected!] Finally, my dad was reassessed, but the results were similar. More uncertainty. The next test was a brain scan, which showed where his brain was lighting up with activity.  Unfortunately, the scan showed many dark spots.  The part of his brain that translates his vision was dark.  His vision is fine, his brain just mixes up the messages.  He looks at his plate of food and his brain shows him there is no silverware next to it.  He can feel the silverware.  He knows it’s there.  But for him there are not even shadows or blurry patches; he sees a smooth wooden table on both sides of his plate where, in fact, a napkin, knife and fork sit.  He has learned to stop asking us where his silverware is and just feel around for it.

Shortly after the diagnosis, it was really clear he needed to stop driving, immediately.  For all dementia patients, this is an early, but massive blow.  It’s represents a loss of freedom and autonomy; it’s a public admission of what’s happening, a surrender of personal agency.  The doctor strongly suggested my father let driving go but said she’d like it to be a family decision made together with my dad. I decided this was in my column, so I started by visiting for an extended time and asking my dad if he’d help me save money on a rental car by sharing his car with me. I promised I’d drive him wherever he needed to go if I could just use his car when I needed it.  He agreed because he’d give me the world if I asked it of him.  I felt a pang the first day I drove him to work. I knew he’d never drive again, but he didn’t.  I dropped hints, opened conversations and he acted as if I were not speaking.  One morning, a few weeks into the arrangement, he announced he’d like to use his car himself that day.  When he got in the shower my mom and I looked at each other.  Was this the showdown we’d been dreading?  Who was going to be the bad guy?  Neither of us has much experience standing up to him – he’s a dominant fellow and led our family with a clear, Father-in-Charge approach.  In the end, we split the duty. I jumped in the car and fled the house leaving her to say, “Joy has taken your car. I’ll drive you to work today.”  He realized then what we were up to and was not happy.

My dad has always been attracted to flash and these days he’s obsessed with the color purple.  As a mental fog settles and his vision blurs, perhaps my dad’s senses are reached only with extremes.  He listens to his radio at volume one thousand, he can eat ice cream all day, at any time, the sweeter the better, and he wants to wear purple clothes.  My sweet mother acquiesces, and I noticed recently she even bought purple bedsheets for him.  He’s talked her into buying him two sports coats this year – both purple.

I find it both exhausting and easy to spend time with my dad.  It’s exhausting because his needs are relentless, and he requires way more care than he’d like to admit. Part of the challenge is giving him the care he needs while keeping his dignity and self-respect in place.  It feels easy to me because I’ve parented kids – a similarly complicated process.  At 5pm, as we head toward dinner, my Dad asks if we can please stop for ice cream on the way.  “No, Dad, we haven’t had dinner yet”….  “Who cares about that?  Who made the rule you can’t have ice cream before dinner, huh?”   I watch him struggle to zip up his coat and then give up, leave it open and put his hands in his pocket.  “Can I help you zip your coat?” I ask.  “Nope, I don’t want it zipped right now.”  At the end of each day he’s exhausted as he climbs into bed.  “Did you take your medicine and brush your teeth?” I ask.  He lets out a big sigh and gives an eye roll that competes with any middle schooler today. “Sheesh. Can’t a man get some rest around here without being pestered all the time,” he mutters as he gets back out of bed to do me the favor of taking his pills. I was walking with him in an airport and we were both pushing the cart of luggage.  He likes to be helpful, but he can’t see where he’s going, so we have to do it together while I actually direct it. I noticed his shoe was untied.  Without thinking, I stopped our cart, bent down to re-tie it and then we walked on.  It was a simple act, hardly worth remembering or mentioning, but it stuck with me long after.  It was muscle memory.  That little act of love and care was something I’d done thousands of times for my kids and it flowed like water from me. I didn’t resent it, blame him or get frustrated by one more delay. I just dealt with it like the best moms do.  Except, I’m the daughter.

In the beginning, I was desperate to get our family connected with emotional support, and I spent a lot of time that first summer understanding local resources.  By chance, I caught the head of the Elder Care and Dementia Support Services from Sibley Hospital on the phone. At the first sound of her empathy, I burst into tears and she sat quietly with me.  I asked a million questions about what to expect and timelines, and here’s the best line she shared with me: “When you’ve seen one case of Alzheimer’s, what you’ve seen is one case. Every person progresses differently, every family copes differently, every personality exhibits the disease differently.”  She told me to watch my dad, know my dad and love my dad.

I know I’ve sat with friends as they’ve struggled through life challenges and I’ve said the exact wrong thing in those moments.  I’ve been forgiven because they see my heart and they are grateful for my presence, but until I’ve been down a particular road, it’s not easy to know the best way to walk it with someone.  Though my family and I have a way to go on this path, we are far enough along for me to share a few ways that are decidedly unhelpful and a few that have been life-giving.

In the unhelpful category is feeling inundated by all the stories of unknown people that are shared with me all of the time, especially if the point of the story is to show how annoying and frustrating these people with dementia can be with their repeated questions and their embarrassing antics.  My whole family gets it, but we don’t benefit from hearing about it from people who are not in the trenches.  Add to that all the well-intended medical or general advice.  We’re with doctors, he’s in trials, rest assured he takes his medicine morning and night with my mom in charge and there’s sadly not much to be done for Alzheimer’s today.  We are doing all we can.

In the helpful category are the people who have engaged him.  The hardest part for him is losing the skills needed to occupy himself. When people call him, set up times to meet with him, invite him to lunch or dinner, he’s a different person (and so is my Mom.) Relief floods in.  He’s not forgotten or overlooked (one of his fears); he realizes people remember him and miss him enough to call.  Especially when preachers he’s known his entire career make an effort to call and encourage him, listen to him, treat him like he’s the minister he’s always been, he is buoyed.

When I am in town, I often read and respond to his emails and texts with him.  There’s one particular minister who makes me weep from his loving emails. He shows my father So. Much. Respect.  He has taken over a ministry my dad created, and he maintains such a delicate balance of honoring where the ministry began while taking it to a new realm. My father pesters him with emails and suggestions and can’t quite let it go, but this man responds without a hint of frustration.  That’s helpful, showing my Dad grace.

Several women in my parents’ church community are the angels.  Each Sunday they hand my mom covered dishes of curries, meats, vegetables, rice dishes and salads.  My mom works full-time still (and we want her to as long as she wants to) and this helps her so much. Her evenings are full as it is and being able to quickly heat up healthy food for my dad and herself is a really huge help.

In the Alzheimer’s world there is a big emphasis on “caring for the caregiver.” My mom can win any endurance test set for her.  She rarely gets frustrated or overwhelmed and has so much love for my dad that she doesn’t even see it as caregiving; it’s just life.  Married Life.  But I know she’s weary.  The breaks she has when other people give my dad attention is all she really needs.

Along with the frustrations of living with this disease, there is also levity.  If my dad is really comfortable and relaxed, he can laugh at some of his mistakes, like word mispronunciations, or forgetting which direction to turn at the top of the stairs in his home. Last year, before I moved back to the States, my parents visited me in Singapore for a trip of a lifetime.  Together, the three of us visited Cambodia and Thailand and even made it to Indonesia for a day.  We were a three-person team and commandeered help wherever we went.  I had no trouble announcing, “this man has memory trouble and we need extra help” whenever we boarded a plane, checked into a hotel or even went to restaurant.  My parents might cringe as I’d give the speech, but no one turned down the extra attention!

My dad had such a great time. Each day he’d smile at me and say, ”This is so amazing.”  Amazing became the word of the day, every day.  He had one bad day where he just couldn’t stay awake. We’d been running at full speed and had one more day to see and do the things on our list.  Because he couldn’t stay alone in the hotel, we took him with us and he slept in the taxi all day as my mom and I got dropped off to see temples and do shopping.  Our taxi driver, Chati, smiled and patted my dad’s sleeping tummy, “Papa stay with me today.” He’d drop us, meet us, drop us, and meet us all day until we went home to go to bed.

In Bangkok, we had a beautiful hotel suite in a fancy, but perhaps not-so-well-suited-for-us, hotel.  There were no light switches, everything was run by an iPad. There were mirrors and glass everywhere.  It felt like a fun house to my dad.  We convinced the manager to provide a small reading lamp in the bathroom so at least my dad could find the bathroom in the middle of the night.   Imagine this:  We are all asleep and only the little light in the bathroom is on.  My parents were in the big bed and I was around a partial wall in a twin rollaway. We didn’t have tons of privacy, but enough for us; we all settled down to sleep.  I awoke from my typical insomnia, so I opened my iPad, put in ear buds and started to watch a random police drama.  I didn’t realize it, but my dad had gotten up to use the bathroom and then he couldn’t find his way back to bed.  In confusion, he wandered around the wall into the living area where I was hidden under the covers watching the moment the killer approaches the victim from behind.  Just at that instant, I felt something sweep across my feet on top of the covers.  It was my dad’s hand feeling for his bed.  As the killer raised his knife behind the innocently unaware woman in my show, my brain thought, “a cat just ran across my bed, but what is a cat doing in this hotel?”  The killer stabbed her just as my Dad sat down right on my feet! I threw the covers back screaming, he jumped up screaming, my mom leapt out of bed in the other room screaming, grabbed the iPad and lit up the whole suite like it was daytime and the three of us stood there screaming at each other in confusion.  Eventually, we calmed down and figured out what had happened, and we laughed and laughed.  As my mom took him by the arm back to bed, I heard my father say, “I still don’t know why Joy was watching a show in my bed!”

My father is a retired minister and, occasionally, still gives sermons.  He has a lot of them in his head and his heart, but not all of them will get to be preached, we know. As long as he can give them, though, it appears people want to hear them.  For right now, my mom has pieced together a great care arrangement. We understand my father’s needs will shift but, for today, it works. His assistant helps him for a few hours each day and they mostly respond to emails and texts and work on sermons.  The assistant types up his spoken thoughts, reads Scripture to him and repeats this process day after day, slowly adding content and depth to the sermon for weeks at a time.  When it’s ready, they announce that my dad will hold a seminar and the congregation signs up to attend on a Saturday morning.

On that day, someone will act as the reader, following along the outline of my dad’s thoughts, reading what my dad spent weeks saying and writing.  My dad will listen to the words as the reader reads and will ad lib and expound when he wants. The reader will make sure they (mostly) stay on point to help my father deliver his heart.  It’s a brilliant system.

Last fall, I was visiting before one of those sermons and we rehearsed the day before for about three hours.  I played the part of the reader and my dad played himself, trying to remember what he wanted to say and what he wanted to emphasize.  As soon as we had gotten through the whole thing, we started over from the beginning again. But, he’d already forgotten some of what he’d said the first time.  I watched him experience frustration and anger and I could feel so clearly – maybe for the first time – what it feels like to be him. To be caught in this world of confusion and frustration but wanting so desperately to contribute and feel relevant. Relevancy has one definition to my Dad: to encourage people through the only vehicle he’s ever known – his voice in a pulpit.  At some point, I suggested we take a break and he sat outside with “his birds.”  My mom helps him fill two bird feeders every week and sits with him on the deck while he whistles and calls the birds.  I went into my room and lay across the bed and wept for 15 minutes.  The sorrow I felt was so deep.  All that he’s lost and how hard he strives to remain, to stay with us as we know him, felt too heavy to carry that day.  We reconvened at the table and hit it again, and he did a brilliant job the next day.  No, he wasn’t the preacher he was in his 40s, but he doesn’t need to be.  He was himself, as open and vulnerable as he could be, doing his very best up there to leave someone with some encouragement.

As you’d expect, he was exhausted afterward.  The adrenaline was gone, people were surrounding him with gratitude and kind words, someone dimmed the lights to signal that it was time to leave the building.  My father was just humming along, enjoying the post-sermon release as my family and I were huddled nearby waiting for him.  We waved him over when he was free.  He reached me first and I said, “Well, what a great job you did,” and he stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, “Thank you so much for joining us today.” He was gracious, but a little distant.  I kept staring at him, shaking his hand a little longer than necessary and he politely pulled it away.  I’d known that this would happen.  I knew it was coming, this first time he wouldn’t know me, but I wasn’t prepared for it.  I took his hand with both of mine and pulled him close and said, “Daddy, it’s Joy. You were awesome.” His shoulders sagged, he hugged me close and he knew it was me.

I’d trade a daddy who recognizes me for this one who is showing all of us how to hold onto hope, to desperately keep giving to others and living his testimony any day of every week.  And twice on Sundays.

I still struggle to see his disease as a gift, to see it as something for his good, or my good.  It’s ruthless and robbing and it reaches deep into a family.  But I can’t deny there have been gifts along the journey of his disease, the most significant being that I find myself so close to him again.  And P.S. we haven’t had another moment where he hasn’t recognized me.  It will come again, I am sure.  But he’s my Daddy and I’ll be his girl even when it happens the next time.

Happy Father’s Day to you.

If you have five minutes to watch part of his sermon about tenacity, I offer it to you, here:

53 Comments on “Losing my Dad. Oh, so slowly…”

  1. Pamela Porter says:

    Your eloquent post is both spot on and heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing this with me.

  2. Kathryn Kimball says:

    Wow. Loved your Dad’s sermon. Very tough stuff!



    Sent from my iPhone


  3. Sean Libby says:

    WOW ….. to my amazing sister, you have captured the essence of our family journey. As I read, I cried, I laughed, and I was silent. My heart went up into my throat and fell to my feet. This journey is like trying to get a hold of something that keeps slipping just out of reach.
    We remember … We love …. we make the most … of now.

    Thank you for expressing our hearts.

    I love you,
    your brother

    • Kelli Kirchner says:

      I am so sorry that I did not know you were on this journey but as always Bro. Libby, Sis Libby and you all set an example for all of us to follow. I had just started coming to CLC, a wounded beyond measure, war weary, soul and the thing that stuck out to me and let me know that I really was at a place that I could trust and heal was when Bro. Libby, THE Pastor, the leader, walked off the platform, stood in front of the pulpit and said, Folks, I need you to pray for me, and the saints gathered around him, laying hands on him and prayed for him. That moment, showed me it’s ok to be real, whatever real is, the good, the bad, the ugly. It’s ok to need prayer, it’s ok to need others. CLC is most definitely a church with the body ministry. And this article while sharing your heart of a man of God whose essence is hard to capture in words, you did and you, the Libby family, again are showing us, how to do what life brings with dignity, togetherness and love. You all are in my prayers.

    • Tim Gaddy says:

      So wonderfully written. Love you all much and we give great honor to your dad and your whole family.

  4. Cricket Browne Collins says:

    Joy, this was beautiful. Loved every word. Went thru it with my grandmother. It’s so hard. Definitely live for the good moments, they are there. My parents didn’t live long enough to ever have this diagnosis (other things happened instead).

    Love you, Cricket


  5. jeffcspears says:

    God has a plan for us all.

  6. Karen Hemmes says:

    Oh my. I cried SO hard and then, in the midst of my tears, you told the middle-of-the-night screaming story, and I laughed SO hard! Then I cried some more.

    One part sound really familiar – the part about telling strangers who are serving him, what’s happening in a quick and honest way, instead of pretending to “be normal.” I do that too with the blind dad. I’ll say to the server, “Can he have a few more napkins? He’s blind.” Meanwhile, mom is saying, “He doesn’t see well,” and he is saying, with a smirk, “I don’t look good…”

  7. tmford0307 says:

    Joy, you are so unbelievably talented! I knew I’d need a box of tissues for this one, and of course I was correct. I will say the part about the hotel had me laughing so hard (at my desk at work), that I had to tell my co-worker what was so funny. I love you. I love your family.

    Friends forever,

  8. tmford0307 says:

    Wow! You my friend are extremely talented. Every blog you write, you absolutely pull me in. I knew I would need a box of tissues while reading this, and I did. I will say I also had a great belly laugh over the hotel incident ( so much so that I had to try to explain to my co-worker why I couldn’t stop laughing). The visual was hilarious.

    I love you. I love your dad. I love your family.

    Friends forever,

  9. Maurice and Doris Gordon says:

    Thank you for sharing from your heart the unbelievably difficult journey with your wonderful father. MRG still appreciates being able to hear his messages on Holy Ghost Radio. His ministry continues in the hearts of those he has impacted and continues to impact with his wisdom.. May you and the family find grace for the journey. Love, Grandma Gordon

  10. Sara Khan says:

    This is beautiful

  11. Lois Sowell says:

    Joy that was so good, warm, tearful. Thank you so much.

  12. jacquelineaaron says:

    Joy, what a poignant piece, simultaneously heartwrenching and hopeful, with a healthy dose of humor (I LOL’d so loudly reading about the hotel/iPad movie incident that my son ran into my room worried I was crying- which I did while watching the video of your dad’s seminar). Thank you for sharing this deeply personal and meaningful journey with us.

  13. Mona says:

    Oh Joy Libby. You come from good people. Thank you for sharing your life and your love for your tenacious father/Father with us. Grateful.

  14. Christie Bishop Richey says:

    Joy , this was amazingly enlightening. Something so many of us don’t understand but now can hope to thru your words. I am so sorry your family is going thru this . The Bishop family truly loves the Libby family. Thank you for sharing. 💗

  15. Jana Allard says:

    This put a big lump in my throat and brought back memories of walking this road with a loved one. Bro. Libby is one of the heroes in my life. I have always admired his brilliant mind. He asked my husband and I to join POR as caregivers when he first started it and we are honored to continue working in this great ministry he established. Please let him know we pray always for him and love him much. – Brian and Jana Allard

  16. Barbara Abernathy says:

    What a beautiful expression of your heart! My hubby spent some time with your Dad a while back and came back with so many great memories! What a time they had and my hubby is forever grateful he had the privilege of spending quality time with this great man of God. My own Dad suffered mini strokes for quite a while & they too robbed him of so much: memory, sight, communication. It is truly horrible to watch your hero struggle so much. Rest assured we are praying for all of you! May the Lord grant strength and peace that only He can give. In love, Bryan & Barbara Abernathy

  17. Vicki Selvey says:

    Joy. Your post was shared with me and I’m so glad I took the time to read your family journey. The insight into this disease is heartbreaking, frustrating and I’m sure at times exhilarating when the “fog” clears and your Dad is back.
    Be reassured that your Father is a man who has fathered many and as a member of his flock I am grateful that our lives intersected during a time when the memories of my time with your Dad are forever written on my heart. God bless you and your family.

  18. Vicki Selvey says:

    Your post was shared with me and I’m so glad I took the time to read your family journey. The insight into this disease is heartbreaking, frustrating and I’m sure at times exhilarating when the “fog” clears and your Dad is back.
    Be reassured that your Father is a man who has fathered many and as a member of his flock I am grateful that our lives intersected during a time when the memories of my time with your Dad are forever written on my heart. God bless you and your family.

  19. Kim McGuckian says:

    I cried as I read this. My dad has alzheimers also and I understand the deep grief of watching someone you love go through this terrible disease. I also understand laughing and making the most of every moment 🙂 I love and admire your family and have prayed for all of you since I found out about your dad’s diagnosis.
    Hugs to you all

  20. Pastor Phillip Zook says:

    This is such a beautiful and touching tribute! Your dad is worthy of such honor because he is an honorable man. He is one of my heroes and has always been a Kingdom minded man of God who is always willing to help a fellow minister. We love your dad and we love your family. He obviously did something right to have children and a wife so devoted. God bless your family and Happy Father’s Day Brother Libby!

  21. Mary Mosley says:

    Thank you Joy. Beautifully written for our understanding. Heart wrenching. My brother suffered from dementia. And I have just recently realized that I’m sure my sister is in early stages. It is so heartbreaking. This will help me because I will have to handle everything with my sister. I’m about to be 66 in September and she will be 79 same month. I’ve got to talk with her and I dread it.

    Loved listening to your Dad. God bless and be with you and your family through this.
    We have been going through our own struggle. My 41 year old son was killed in a horrific traffic accident in December. Life can really be hard. ❤️🙏

  22. Keith Johnson says:

    Joy, don’t you know that vanilla ice cream makes your teeth white?

  23. Tami says:

    Joy- this is so beautiful. I always remember you as Daddy’s girl. Your love for one another so evident. I’ve been praying for you all, and will continue to do so.

  24. Joy, you were just a child when we were home missionaries in Maryland. Your Dad was a blessing to us and our boys many times, financially and in encouraging. My own Dad had Dementia/Alzheimer’s. He lived with us for 2 1/2 years and there were many days he didn’t know us. One day he asked my husband who he was and who I was and why we were living together and were we married. The saddest moment was when he asked me one evening what his wife’s name was and how many children they had. I am an only child. But through all this he could quote scripture and he would pray often while sitting outside in his chair on the porch. I wouldn’t trade the hard bad days when he was belligerent to not having him with us at all. I cherished every day he was with us. More so after he was gone. Thank you for bring back memories.

  25. Joe Currie says:

    Very poignant.

  26. Salissa Carver says:

    Your father preached my husband’s ordination in 2005 at our Tennessee District Conference. Thank you for sharing your heart in this writing. Many prayers for you, your family, and your remarkable father.

  27. Jenny Teets says:

    Thank you Joy for your beautiful but painful story of life with the AZ condition, which is robbing a most gifted man of his glorious gifts.
    Now is the time to start pulling people close to you for comfort and consolation yourself! While my husband had a case close to this condition, but different, his mini strokes robbed him too of his memory. He was thankful for help as was I. It is a lonely walk, but I’ll never regret helping him through it. I was, sad to admit, relieved when the Lord took him from
    the miserable condition he was in, but now, 6 months later, I am remembering the wonderful man he was. In his prime, and I miss him so much. If it comforts you, remember that many people understand what you’re going through and are praying for you. Love, Sis. teets

  28. Amy Bolinger says:

    Dear Joy,

    Thank you for such an outstanding article. I appreciate every word. You and your family will be in our thoughts and prayers in the days to come.

    Happy Fathers Day to the fine daughter of a great man.

    Amy Bolinger

  29. Lori Alders says:

    I love your dad and although everyone’s story is different, I went through this with my Dad and my Mom’s Dementia. You put the struggle into words and yet it’s at times so much worse. I remember my struggle with Jesus at why He would allow this. I never got an answer. I did get His comfort. His peace. I knew one day we would be together forever with perfect communication. I’m praying for your dad and your family. Peace above all. 🙏🏻

  30. Rev. John Chance says:

    Thank you! I laughed at the right time, was stunned when I should’ve been, and was absolutely amazed at the processes you all have set up to help make this giant of a man keep his stature. We have great respect for your dad.

  31. Carol says:

    As a fellow traveler on this lonely road as caretaker/wife of one so dear I must say thank you for sharing. I have found the most difficult adjustment is the loss of interaction with friends. They still need coffe time or a phone call. They are still in there! They miss their friends! My husband is weak and has better days than others. He can still make me laugh like crazy! He reads all day long! Always has! Thank God for Goodwill! If you haven’t figured it out by now, my sweet husband is none other than Carl Wheatly! This terrible disease takes its time! Each day that my sweetheart reaches out to me is a gift, because he may not, tomorrow! That’s when I’ll have to trust God to see me through. Love and prayers, Carol Thornton, Wheatly

  32. Rachel says:

    Joy, those words, You’re stronger than you know, must have relevance in a way you wouldn’t otherwise care to know.

    “Daddy, it’s me, Joy,” pinched my heart, dear girl. Connection is your relationship with your Dad. And when his connection to you trembles like that, I imagine you feel an urgent call to hold him tight as if that will lock him in place and time forever. No more change!

    Know that you will find a way, my friend, like twisting and turning through a rugged and seemingly impassable path, you will find your way. You will redefine how to be with your lovely father. You will connect with him in new ways, as you understand how to be there with him, for him, for you.

    Your heart is so full and knowing. Your heart will guide you, just like you adapted to each new stage your children entered, they leading the way, you feeling behind and confused. You adapted with determination and love to the new selves they became. And you will find your way with your dad too.

    Thank you for sharing with such grace and courage this journey with your father These are traits that I suspect have always defined you. After watching your father’s tenacity sermon, I so clearly see who also has those gifts.

  33. Beautifully written, as always. Thank you for sharing this and for being vulnerable and open with us!! Hugs!!! Let’s get together soon 🙂

  34. Nancy Bolinger says:

    Beautiful…your dad, my husband and I had a wonderful conversation over dinner here in Iowa after he spoke a few years ago. He was in the process of selling and purchasing your church. We enjoyed him so much. Tell him we appreciate him!

  35. Debbie Wiseman says:

    Joy… Thank you for sharing. Bro. Libby was and still is a hero to me and my family. We still pray for him, quote him, tell stories about him. He impacted our lives in ways he will never know. What a great man he is!

  36. Kristin Ventura says:


    Thank you for your elegant and heart wrenching words, providing us a glimpse into your lives right now. Though 15 years have passed since I called Maryland my home, I will forever carry fond memories and lessons from CLC and the Libby family. There are so many people around the globe rooting for you all, inspired by you all, and thankful for you all.

    Kristin (Hoover) Ventura

  37. Traci Ellenberger says:

    Thirty-seven Year’s ago my husband and I were new converts and college students. We were given 2 sermons by your father on cassettes. One was called “Agag came delicately” and the other one was “you can fail and not be a failure”. I cannot tell you how much those messages help two struggling college students. The second one has encouraged and strengthened me many times over the past 37 years. Your father is a great man of God who has touched many more lives than he is even aware of. My thoughts and prayers are with you as you go on this difficult journey. Never doubt that your father will be remembered by many, many people. God bless.

  38. Terri Wachtstetter says:

    Joy, your words so eloquently penned pulled at my heartstrings. It brought back many memories of my mom and her journey with Alzheimer’s. You expressed things incredibly well. Thank you for sharing this beautiful tribute regarding your dad. My love and prayers for you and your precious family.

  39. Tracy Lewis says:

    Joy, this was amazing! I had to read it in bite-size chunks because the brevity is literally breath-taking to read and emotional at the same time. I literally laughed-out- loud and then wept numerous times. The connection that the Libby family exemplifies is beautiful.

    We love your father and family like our own family. We anticipate our chats on the phone with him and cherish every second. I save every voicemail and text I receive (I have texts still from 2017 I have never erased). Pastor Libby is a giant in my life and I thank God for him.

    Thank you for sharing such an intimate glimpse into your world. We love you all and are praying for your wonderful family.

    Tracy Lewis

  40. Gteg Hopper says:

    I always loved to hear your Dad preach. I remember hearing him a few times in person at Because of The Times, Louisiana Camp Meeting, & once at some kind of Rally in Pineville, Louisiana.

    It’s sad to hear he’s going through this but what an inspiration at the same time. Even in the middle of confusion, he’s still trying to give His best to the Kingdom. Loved the video clip of him preaching!

    God bless the Libby family richly. Praying for all of you!

  41. Karen says:

    What a beautifully written article, loved reading (& crying). You are a treasured daughter (& sister) throughout this. The part where you mentioned how the friends who take him out to lunch or take care of your mom really hit home with my dad as he & my mom went thru cancer. Thanks for sharing your beautiful story!

  42. NBF says:

    What a beautiful message, dearest Joy. Sending love and prayers to you and your dear Dad. 🙏❤️


  43. chancey2013 says:

    What a great friend and mentor Bro. Libby has been to me through the years. He has been a father figure to many. Me and my family love him deeply and are praying for him. What an awesome tribute to an awesome man for fathers day!

  44. chancey2013 says:

    Joy, thank you for sharing your dad’s journey. Bro. Libby has been a friend and mentor to me for many years and i am thankful. Me and my family love you all deeply and are praying for you.

  45. Juji says:

    A message for us all to remember and to live by. Thank you for sharing your story if your dad’s journey and your family’s Journey through this horrendous disease.
    I will be praying for you and thinking of all of you. May God’s grace be with you. And may your mom’s Angels still continue to show up to give her the love and support that she will need.
    You are a true and faithful daughter!

    Thank you for showing so much love and kindness.

    Peace & Grace,

    Juji ❤

  46. Susan McLaughlin says:

    So touching and heartbreaking to read this Joy. It brings so much back about my 10 years of this illness with Herb. I know how kind and gracious you were with him and your patience, kindness, wisdom and love serve you so well with your father. How blessed he is to have you. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. Find comfort and strength in each other. With love

  47. Mike Saindon says:

    Dear Joy,
    I am am so sorry to hear about your dad. He is a Great man of God. I will never forget the kindness him and your mother gave to our daughter Anna when she was going to school in Washington DC.
    You and your family are in our prayers.
    God Bless,
    Mike Saindon

  48. Carla Burton says:

    This is beautiful and so poignant. Thank you, Joy, for sharing these intimate details about living with and dealing with this disease. This helps me know how to pray for your family. May God keep His hand on all of you as you walk this road.

  49. Patricia Phillips says:

    Praying for your family. Sister Patty phillips

    • joylibby says:

      Thank you so much!

      • Juji Mayne says:

        Your Daddy is a gentleman and a scholar!
        I am deeply touched that you shared this with us thank you so much. It brought me to tears because there’s nothing like a father’s 💕 love.

        May Christ give you comfort and peace.

        Tenacity is the word that I will always equate with your father.

        I hope you and your family are staying safe during these crazy end very difficult time.

        Sending you love,

        Juji 💕

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