Dad sits at the small kitchen table with his Marine ball cap covering his scattered gray hair.  His brow is furrowed, and his piercing blue eyes appear deep in thought. Slowly he adds words to a journal that increasingly makes little sense.  I asked what he was writing, and he shared that he was composing thoughts on how God likes eggs cooked.  I had just asked him how he wanted his eggs that morning; that thought was fixed in his mind.