A Lighter Way Week 15: This Is My Stop
Aug 29, 2026My grandmother startled us with her shouting.
“This is my stop! I want to get off. This is it!”
My mom and I looked at her, confused. At the time, I didn’t understand Alzheimer’s or dementia. My mom had learned to ask grounding questions which helped us understand.
Gram, as I called her, stood in the middle of our Tennessee living room, insisting she was on a bus in Washington, D.C. in 1937.
Intuitively, maybe due to my active imagination, I learned how to enter her world rather than pull her out of it.
When she insisted she needed to get off the bus, I learned to pivot.
“Where are we going?” I’d ask. Or, “I’m hungry. Do you think we could get something to eat?”
The surprise of the question often softened her fear. She’d pause, refocus, and eventually move toward dinner. Somehow, she always remembered who I was even if my age shifted in her mind. She remembered my dad too, though usually as a younger man.
I didn’t know it then, but this was my first experience of the Lighter Way: the practice of meeting reality as it is, not as I wish it were.
Recently, my mom gave me a blackā€‘andā€‘white photo of my grandmother as a young woman before Alzheimer’s, before the unraveling.
After her death, secrets surfaced. Her name had been legally changed. Her birth date wasn’t real; her hometown was different. We learned she was Jewish, and her family hid it, a truth that reframed so many things she had said, including her survivor’s guilt during WWII.
Her life was not easy. She was legally blind, fiercely independent, and determined. She married late, went to college in her 50s, and adopted my dad on Mother’s Day in 1951.
She wasn’t overly known for her affection, except her gentleness with me. She taught me how to cook, how to manage money, how to write a check. I read her books aloud. She played cards with a bright light and a magnifying lens. Once, I told her I could see the cards reflected in her glasses. She laughed, tossed the cards at me, and said, “Shame on you.”
Even now, I can hear her laugh.
Practice:
Sit comfortably. Place a hand over your heart. Take three slow breaths.
Then pray:
“Holy One, help me meet others where they are, not where I wish they were, not where fear places them, not where memory confines them.
Let me enter their world gently, with curiosity instead of control, with compassion instead of correction.
Teach me the lighter way: the way of presence, the way of tenderness, the way of love that adapts, softens, and listens. Amen.”
Pause for a moment. Let someone you love to rise gently in your mind. Whisper: “I meet you where you are.”
Blessing:
May the mystery of your story be held with gentleness. May the timelines you carry find room to breathe. May compassion rise in you like a soft light. May you meet others, and yourself, with spacious grace.
And when life feels confusing or heavy, may you hear a quiet voice within saying,
This is my stop. I want to get off. This is it.
May that moment become a doorway into peace.
Slightly edited picture of my grandmother.
This fifteenth reflection comes from Katie Rea, a Writing Coach at WTC's School of Spiritual Direction and a 2021 Alum
Stay Connected!
Updates and News sent directly to your inbox.
We hate SPAM. We will never sell your information, for any reason.
