I have this memory from when I was little of holding a heavy rectangular paperweight in my hand, staring through the thick slab of wavy glass to read these words beneath: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I don’t know why that memory keeps popping into my mind or where that paperweight is or, come to think of it, why paperweights are a thing in the first place. I mean, who’s doing paperwork in such windy places that they need a pound of glass to hold their piles of paper in place anyway?

But thinking of that paperweight and that verse makes me think of my mom. While her mind continues to weaken from the effects of Alzheimer’s disease, she shows me a strength I wasn’t expecting. Last week, we sat in her living room and performed her favorite activity—singing from the hymn book. Though she can’t remember who I am and she can no longer read, she can recall the words to at least the first verse and chorus of so many sacred songs.

Her wholehearted singing is enthusiastic when she spreads her hands palms-up and sings, “He is my everything/He is my all/He is my everything/Both great and small.” Her voice is plaintive and serious when she sings, “Abide with me: fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide. When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.”

Though we hate that her mind is slowly subtracting her from us, we try to look on the bright side. We’re grateful that for the most part, the disease hasn’t made her angry or scared. She’s pleasant and happy to see anyone who stops by for a visit (this includes birds at the backyard bird feeder). She’s sees beauty everywhere, often colors and shapes swirling around just beyond her reach that we can’t see but bring her such joy.

When I’m at her house, she compliments me nonstop—my appearance, my singing, and any other thing I say or do. (To be honest, I did do a really good job setting her glass of orange juice on the TV tray, so her effusive praise of that act makes perfect sense.) She doesn’t remember about war or crime or taxes, so she doesn’t seem to have a worry in the world. She has little appetite, so she’s not thinking about her next meal. She’s unconcerned about her appearance, positively delighted to wear one of my dad’s polo shirts as if it were her Sunday best. The one thing she asks for is usually to go to bed once it gets dark.

In some ways, it’s as if all of her thoughts have been boiled down into one concentrated thing—loving on the person in front of her right now. It’s like that paperweight and the distortion caused by the glass when I looked through it. So many things were in the way of really reading that truth, but for her, at least in this one way at this specific time, the glass has been shattered.

When the Apostle Paul wrote those words about finding strength through his faith in Philippians 4, he wasn’t talking about something from the Marvel Universe. This wasn’t Captain America or the Hulk saying, “I have super powers! I can do ALL things!” The key to this verse is in the previous verses where Paul said he knew the secret of being content, whether in times of need or in times of plenty. That secret is relying on Christ. In tough times, I can also cling to this same time-worn promise: “I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”