We often take offense when our loved ones forget what we told them, break promises, or seem to ignore our wishes. We feel hurt, irritated, even angry—How could they not remember? How could they not listen? But what if, in our frustration, we’re catching just a glimpse of what God endures from us every single day?

This summer, I went to visit my Aunt Anastasia—87 years old, gentle in appearance, and slowly fading into the fog of dementia. Officially diagnosed, she now lives under the constant care of a caregiver, with family members visiting in turns.

Before I arrived, relatives warned me: “Her character has changed—she’s impossible now.” I wondered: What does memory loss have to do with personality? I found out soon enough.

When I arrived, Auntie seemed to recognize me. She was excited, bustling about, saying that she always rushes to answer the door—though no one had rung. Ten minutes later, she did the same thing. And again. Her caregiver, visibly worn out, answered her repeated questions with growing fatigue: “No, no one is at the door,” before locking it yet again.

Every 15 minutes, Auntie would begin making lunch—pulling food from the fridge, lighting the stove. Each time, the caregiver rushed to turn off the burners, put everything away, and gently remind her: “Let us cook for you, dear.”

Then there were the cleaning episodes. Auntie would launch into tidying up the entire apartment with the determination of a whirlwind. That’s how I lost my laptop charger. When I asked gently if she’d moved it, she responded with hurt: “I didn’t touch a thing!”

Later, I lost my entire handbag—only to find it under her pillow.

But through the chaos of missing objects, cold stoves, locked doors, and forgotten conversations, something began to shift in me.

I realized I was being taught.

I had to let go of expectations. I had to stop demanding logic and consistency. I had to practice patience not for show, but from the heart. Because in that home, with a woman who could no longer remember what she had said five minutes ago, I was stripped of control—and given an opportunity to love.

And it dawned on me: this is what God does for us, every day.

We forget Him. We break our promises. We ignore His wisdom and insist on doing things our way. Yet He doesn’t abandon us. He responds with mercy. He calls us back. He covers us in grace.

God is not irritated. He is love. And sometimes, He teaches us that love not in grand gestures, but in small, uncomfortable, holy inconveniences.

I’ve loved Aunt Anastasia since I was a child. The warmth of that affection helped me accept her confusion, her outbursts, her unintentional chaos. But more than that—it helped me see what love really looks like: not something that expects to be heard and obeyed, but something that remains, even when it isn’t.

It turns out, it is possible to love someone who no longer remembers how to love you back. It is possible—with God’s help.

And that may be the most important lesson dementia can teach: that real love is not about what we receive, but about what we give—even when it’s hard, even when it goes unnoticed, even when it must be repeated every 15 minutes.

Because that’s how God loves us. And He never forgets.