Last week, I visited my 95 year old father. For much of the time that I was there, he stared out the window to the fields he once tilled and talked about his early years. As I listened, I realized that dad had indeed become little with time, his body growing tired and his memories slipping from reach. He called me by name, but then thought I was his sister. And in that moment, my heart embraced his--as he struggled to make sense of it all.