The Last Dance
Calgary Stampede celebration at our church
By Ed Kheler
A special part of Lynn's and my life together that gradually came to an end when dementia made it impossible for her mind and feet to work together. Dancing had brought us joy, laughter, exercise, and precious time together for many years.
Some of the sweetest memories Lynn and I shared came during the later years of our marriage when we discovered the simple joy of dancing together.
Neither of us was a professional dancer. We were simply a husband and wife who enjoyed being together. Yet dancing became one of those special gifts God gave us later in life. It brought exercise, laughter, companionship, and countless happy memories.
Lynn excelled on the dance floor. She seemed to have a natural sense of rhythm and grace. I, on the other hand, spent much of my time trying to keep up with her. Somehow, she managed to make me look better than I really was.
Most of our dancing took place at senior events, community gatherings, and special occasions. Every year, we especially looked forward to the Calgary Stampede celebrations at our church. The music, fellowship, and Western atmosphere created memories we treasured. We danced with friends, laughed together, and enjoyed life in a way that reminded us we were still young at heart.
Valentine's Day social at AgeCare Skypoint
Dancing also became a part of our journey after Lynn’s health began to decline. During her first year at SkyPointe, music often provided a bridge between the world she once knew and the confusing reality of dementia. When familiar songs were played, something wonderful would happen. Her face would brighten, her feet would begin to move, and for a few moments it seemed as though the disease loosened its grip.
Staff, residents, and visitors often smiled as they watched us dance together. It was more than entertainment. It was therapy. It was an exercise. It was a connection. Most importantly, it was a way for us to continue expressing love when words sometimes failed.
As dementia progressed, however, dancing became more difficult. Her balance changed. Walking became harder. Eventually, wheelchairs replaced dance floors. The music still played, but our dancing gradually came to an end.
I cannot remember the exact day of our last dance. Perhaps that is fitting. Many endings in life arrive quietly. There is no announcement, no warning, no final curtain call. One day, you simply realize something precious has slipped into memory.
Yet I do not think our dancing is really over.
When I look back, I realize the dance was never just about music and movement. It was about two people walking through life together. Through joys and sorrows, health and sickness, certainty and confusion, we kept moving to the rhythm God had set for our lives.
Today, when I visit Lynn, I sometimes hold her hand while a familiar hymn or song plays in the background. Her feet may no longer dance, but occasionally I see a smile, a glance of recognition, or a gentle squeeze of my hand. In those moments, I am reminded that love still remains.
The dance floor may be gone, but the music of our life together continues.
And someday, by God’s grace, when all sickness and sorrow are gone, perhaps Lynn and I will dance together again.