“Shh… The Church Service Isn’t Over Yet”
I found her sitting quietly in bed, clutching a blanket in her hands. She meticulously folded and unfolded a portion of it, her brow furrowed in concentration, as if sewing an intricate stitch or carefully gluing pieces together.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” I asked softly, not wanting to disturb whatever peaceful task occupied her mind.
She looked at me, her eyes clear and serene—a rare expression these days. She raised a finger to her lips.
“Shh,” she whispered, motioning for me to sit beside her. “Wait. The church service isn’t over yet. Let’s listen.”
And so we sat in comfortable silence. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of the blanket in her hands and the quiet hum of the house.
For two hours.
For two hours, my mother—lost in the fog of Parkinson’s dementia, living in a world of hallucinations and confusion—sat peacefully in her bedroom attending a church service only she could perceive.
And I, her caregiver and son, sat beside her. A fellow parishioner in an invisible sanctuary.
Faith Had Always Been Her Anchor
Before Parkinson’s and dementia stole so much from her, Sundays meant church.
Without fail.
Rain or shine, summer or winter, my mother would dress in her best clothes and spend hours in that small village church. It wasn’t just religious obligation—it was where she found her community, her peace, her connection to something larger than herself.
The Rituals She Loved
- The liturgy chanted in Romanian Orthodox tradition
- The incense filling the sanctuary with sacred smoke
- The icons watching from the walls
- The hymns she knew by heart
- The communion she received with reverence
- The fellowship after service ended
Church wasn’t just a building. It was a cornerstone of her identity.
When Church Became Impossible
As Parkinson’s progressed, walking became difficult. Then dangerous. Then impossible.
We stopped going to church.
The priest began visiting our home for Easter and Christmas—bringing communion, offering confession, providing the rituals she couldn’t reach on her own anymore.
But those were just twice a year.
For someone who had spent every Sunday in sacred space for decades, the loss was profound.
Until her brain, in its broken way, gave her church back.
The “Service” in Her Bedroom
That afternoon, sitting beside her as she attended her invisible church, I watched her carefully.
Her lips moved silently, forming words I couldn’t hear. Prayers she’d memorized decades ago.
Her eyes tracked movement I couldn’t see—perhaps the priest moving through the sanctuary, perhaps the congregation standing and sitting in familiar rhythm.
Occasionally, a soft smile would cross her face. Recognition. Comfort.
When a hymn she knew particularly well must have been sung in her mind, I heard her humming softly—the melody clear, beautiful, unchanged by disease.
What Was Happening in Her Brain?
From a medical perspective, this was a complex hallucination—visual, auditory, even olfactory if she was “smelling” the incense.
Her damaged brain was creating an entire sensory experience from memory and misfiring neurons.
But from a spiritual perspective?
Who’s to say it wasn’t real for her? Who’s to say this wasn’t grace?
When the “Service” Ended: The Journey Home
As the imaginary service neared its end, her peaceful behavior gave way to growing restlessness.
“I need to go home now,” she said, her voice tinged with urgency. “The service is over and I need to get home.”
The realization hit me: she believed she was at church. Not in her own bed.
The transition from the serene sanctuary of her mind back to the reality of her illness was abrupt for her.
“You are home, Mom,” I said gently, taking her hand. “You’re right here in your bed.”
But my words made little sense to her in that moment. The pull of her imagined reality—the need to return “home” to a place that no longer existed—was strong.
Arguing would only distress her more.
The Gentle Redirection
I learned to gently redirect her confusion:
“Okay, Mom. Let’s go to the kitchen for a moment. I have something special to show you.”
Or: “Why don’t we take a little walk to the living room? The sunlight is lovely there.”
A change of scenery, a shift in focus, often eased her immediate anxiety.
We’d get out of bed (with my help), go to the kitchen or living room—and once there, the familiar surroundings sometimes helped her reorient.
Then, after a little while, I’d gently guide her back to her bedroom. Back to the same place we’d started.
The change of location seemed to reset her internal compass, allowing her to accept, for a time, that she was indeed home.
The Recurring Journey: Daily Displacement
Feeling away from “home” became a daily anxiety.
At least once a day, she would express a deep need to return to a place that existed only in her memories.
“I need to go home. I don’t know where I am, but I need to get home.”
No amount of reassurance that she was home—in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom, the house she’d lived in for decades—penetrated this conviction.
The Train Ticket
One particularly vivid afternoon, her immediate surroundings transformed completely.
She lay in bed, but her expression suddenly filled with worry.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, her eyes moving restlessly. “The train… I haven’t paid for my ticket.”
In her mind, the bed had become a train carriage. And she was consumed by anxiety about being a stowaway.
The consequences, though imaginary, clearly caused her real distress.
Meeting Her in Her Reality
Understanding that logic wouldn’t help, I decided to enter her reality instead of fighting it.
I took some small change from her wallet on the nightstand.
“Here, Mom,” I said gently, placing the money in her hand. “This is for your ticket. It’s enough for a round trip, so you don’t need to worry.”
Her hand closed tightly around the money. A visible wave of relief washed over her face. The anxiety in her eyes lessened, replaced by the feeling of having solved an urgent problem.
“Oh thank you, my dear,” she said, her voice calmer. “I was so worried they’d make me get off.”
For a while, she remained peaceful, holding the money, reassured that her journey was paid for.
The bed might still have been a train in her mind. But at least she was a legitimate passenger.
The Olympic Gold Medal and Faith’s Protection
Faith didn’t just provide her with peaceful hallucinations. It also seemed to protect her—or at least, protect her dignity—in ways I hadn’t expected.
The Priest’s Visit
Every Easter and Christmas, our village priest came to the house for confession and communion. These visits always brought Mom profound peace.
Afterwards, a quiet calm would settle over her—a serenity that often lasted for hours, sometimes days. Her anxieties and hallucinations would retreat, replaced by stillness.
One particular visit happened shortly after my sister Sarah had shared news about her daughter—my six-year-old niece, who was working hard on ballet and had a recital coming up.
The Embellished Truth
A few days later, as the priest was preparing to leave, he turned to me with a warm smile.
“She told me about your niece,” he said kindly. “It’s wonderful that she won the gold medal at the Olympics!”
Sarah and I exchanged a quick glance—a mix of amusement and understanding.
My niece was talented and passionate about ballet. But the Olympics were a distant dream, especially at six years old.
Mom, in her own way, had processed the news and embellished it. A children’s ballet recital had become Olympic triumph in her mind.
The Priest’s Wisdom
The beautiful thing? The priest didn’t correct her. He didn’t point out the impossibility.
He simply affirmed her understanding, meeting her where she was without causing confusion.
“Yes,” I said quietly, playing along. “We’re all very proud of her.”
The priest nodded, his eyes full of compassion. He understood the nature of her reality—how her mind could transform the ordinary into something extraordinary.
He honored her perception without feeling the need to correct it.
That small exchange taught me something important: sometimes love means affirming someone’s joy, even when the facts don’t align.
What Faith Gave Her (When Everything Else Was Taken)
Dementia had stolen so much from my mother:
- Her ability to walk
- Her memories of recent events
- Sometimes, even her recognition of me
- Her sense of safety in her own home
- Her independence
- Her sense of time and place
But it couldn’t steal her faith.
The Prayers She Never Forgot
She couldn’t remember what she’d eaten for breakfast. She couldn’t recall conversations we’d had an hour before.
But the prayers she’d learned as a child? Perfect recall.
“Our Father, who art in heaven…” She could recite it without hesitation.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…” Every word intact.
The hymns, the litanies, the blessings—all preserved in some protected corner of her brain that dementia couldn’t quite reach.
The Peace It Brought
Unlike the hallucinations that frightened her (the thieves, the intruders, the collapsing house), religious visions brought peace.
When she “attended church” in her bed, she was calm.
When she “saw” religious icons or “heard” hymns, she was comforted.
Faith became a refuge within the chaos of her mind.
The Science and the Sacred
From a neurological perspective, this makes sense.
How Faith Survives Dementia
1. Deep Encoding Religious practices learned in childhood are encoded in multiple brain areas—procedural memory, emotional memory, semantic memory. This redundancy makes them more resilient to deterioration.
2. Emotional Connection Faith isn’t just intellectual knowledge. It’s tied to powerful emotions—comfort, belonging, transcendence. Emotional memories often outlast factual ones.
3. Repetition Over Decades Prayers repeated thousands of times create neural pathways so strong that even significant brain damage can’t fully erase them.
4. Multi-Sensory Experience Church involves sight (icons), sound (hymns), smell (incense), touch (crossing oneself), taste (communion). Multi-sensory memories are stronger.
But There’s Something More
Science explains the how. But it doesn’t fully explain the why.
Why did dementia give her church services but also terrifying intruders?
Why did her broken brain create spaces of peace alongside spaces of fear?
I don’t have answers. But I choose to believe that faith—real faith, not just memory—provided her refuge when nothing else could.
What I Learned About Dementia and Faith
Caring for someone whose faith survives their cognition taught me:
1. Spiritual Memory Is Different
The brain stores religious experience differently than other memories. Honor that.
2. Don’t Correct Joyful Delusions
If they believe they’ve attended church, been blessed, or experienced something sacred—let them have that. It’s harming no one and bringing them peace.
3. Use Faith as a Tool
When anxiety strikes, religious music, prayer, or calling the priest can sometimes provide comfort when nothing else works.
4. Their Faith May Comfort You Too
Watching her pray, hearing her sing hymns, seeing her find peace in imagined church services—it reminded me that some parts of the soul remain intact even when the mind fails.
For Caregivers of People With Faith
If your loved one has religious faith and dementia:
✅ DO:
Play religious music from their tradition Simple hymns, chants, or prayers can be incredibly soothing.
Invite clergy to visit Even brief visits can bring profound peace that lasts for days.
Keep religious items visible Icons, crosses, prayer beads—familiar objects provide comfort.
Participate in their “services” If they believe they’re at church, sit with them. Be present.
Don’t argue about religious delusions If they see angels or saints, that’s bringing comfort. Let it be.
❌ DON’T:
Dismiss their spiritual experiences Even if they’re hallucinations, they’re meaningful to them.
Force religious practices If they’re not comforted by prayer or church, don’t push it.
Overwhelm with too much stimulation One hymn is calming. Ten might be confusing.
The Last “Church Service”
A few weeks ago, Mom sat in bed again, that same peaceful expression on her face.
“The service is beautiful today,” she whispered.
I sat beside her. Held her hand.
We stayed there together—two people in very different realities, connected by love and silence.
When it ended, she turned to me and smiled.
“Thank you for coming with me.”
“Always, Mama,” I said. “Always.”
What Faith Teaches Us About Dementia
Maybe dementia doesn’t destroy everything.
Maybe it creates new spaces—some terrifying, some peaceful.
Maybe the brain, even in its brokenness, still seeks what it’s always sought: meaning, connection, and grace.
My mother’s invisible church isn’t in any building. It exists in the damaged neural pathways of her brain, in the preserved memories of decades of worship, in the faith that somehow survives when so much else is gone.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s more than enough.
Maybe that’s exactly what she needs.
Continue Reading
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Does faith provide comfort for your loved one with dementia? Share your experience in the comments.
Resources
- Alzheimer’s Association Faith Communities: Resources for religious communities supporting dementia families
- Your local clergy: Many are trained in dementia pastoral care
- Music resources: Search “[denomination] hymns” on YouTube for familiar songs
Cristian cares for his mother with Stage 4 Parkinson’s disease and dementia in Romania. Every Sunday, she still attends church—sometimes in her bed, sometimes in her mind, always with faith intact. Follow their journey at HopesForMom.com.
