Editor's note: Thousands of Christians have benefited from the wisdom of retired business executive Fred Smith Sr., including the leaders of Christianity Today International, our parent company. In this article, one of his daughters reflects on what she learned after taking her parents into her home amid their health struggles.

Finishing well is a lifetime goal for my father, Fred Smith. In 2001 Dad and Mom began a new leg of their journey—they moved in with me. They were trading in their roles of caring for others and adjusting to being cared for. At times it looked as though Dad would precede Mom in death, but Mom died last November and Dad is still going strong.

After my parents moved in, I began working with Dad on a book about his life lessons. The book was to be called Breakfast with Fred, to reflect how often people recalled receiving guidance from Dad during that meal. Dad had to spend five months in a hospital in 2002 as he fought off a life-threatening infection.

After that setback, we decided to develop a website before trying to write a book—and www.breakfastwithfred.com was born. My son, Jeff, put his career on hold to create an ever-growing online archive of Dad's lifework. Little did we know how important and relevant this project was to become in all of our lives.

In the spring of 2004 a virulent staph infection again challenged Dad's life. This time the website became Dad's link between heaven and earth. Thousands prayed as I posted daily updates on his condition. We heard from members of the Breakfast With Fred family around the world as they asked God to give him more time. They cried with us as we were told he had but hours to live and rejoiced with us as we brought him home alive. The concept of the website has expanded since that life-and-death struggle. This is not just what a businessman has learned about life, but what he and Mom learned about receiving our care, about living full lives, and finishing well.

Here are some of the lessons that I've learned from watching my parents.

Aging isn't optional; being aged is.
Dad puts it this way: "Get older, but don't get old. As you age, make longer plans, or else you are subconsciously telling yourself to die." Dad believes he has rent due on his earthly space, and he pays that bill by contributing to others. The increasing candles on our birthday cakes produce a bright glow—and so should we. On Saturday mornings up to 20 people gather in our house for a conversational open house affectionately known as "Fred in the Bed." It is important for Dad to stay actively involved in people's lives. We arrange chairs around his bed, and he challenges his friends for 90 minutes with wisdom and laughter.

God is real.
Mom struggled with depression as her Parkinson's disease caused serious brain dysfunction. But she fought for joy and consistently looked for God's hand in the lives of her family. Our last private conversation lasted for a precious two hours. "What do you want to say to me, Mom? What do you need to hear from me?" Her little hand, clasped in mine, squeezed tightly. "Brenda, I want you to be in a safe place, happy, and doing the work that God has given you to do." That was her final blessing for me. What a gift.

I frequently kid Dad that he is in double overtime because his life has been spared three times in four years. Dad's near-death experiences have made his search for joy in the Lord more fervent. A lifetime of believing has helped him see the sufficiency of Christ even more in his final years.

Friends bring joy.
Dad's five-month hospital stay in 2002 exhausted us all, but Mom did not miss one day of visiting him. She sat patiently beside him in her wheelchair, aching but loving and serving. We would enter the room to see her hand outstretched to touch him and assure him that she was there. This is the friendship of a 67-year marriage. A dear Canadian friend sent flowers that gave the room "the aroma of care," in Dad's words. Friends gathered around him gave him strength, even when he was unaware of their presence.

Time is a gift.
Mom and Dad's re-maining time together was something precious. I overheard Dad telling his good friend, Steve Brown, "When you have so little time left, you can't spend it doing stupid things. You invest it in things that count." They put each day in the eternal context of being one step closer to heaven, but striving to do good while they are here. Mom often told us, "I wouldn't mind going on to heaven, but I want to be here to pray for the grandchildren."

Love is enduring.
We didn't grow up in a particularly demonstrative family. Hugging and kissing were reserved for "special occasions." As Dad lay in an intensive care unit with little hope of recovery, our family sat hour after hour reading, praying, and speaking words of encouragement. We all adopted the practice of kissing his forehead as we left him, not knowing whether it meant "see you in a few minutes" or "see you in heaven's morning." One day as I repeated our ICU ritual, Dad looked up and said, "Why don't you all just make a stamp and leave a permanent kiss on my forehead? I have never been kissed so much in my entire life." He protested, but he knew it was a sign of love and faith.

Sickness doesn't create sainthood.
Sickness is a test of patience, emotional discipline, and maturity. After Dad's hospital stay in 2004 he lay immobile on his back for nearly a year. He disciplined his mind to find contentment in this incapacity. From his bed he stretched and encouraged his friends. But from his bed he also struggled with the deeper things of God: What does it mean to delight in the Lord? What does it mean to find true joy in Christ? "Old age and sickness don't automatically draw you to God," Dad once said. The closer he gets to eternity, the more prepared he wants to be.

Laughter revives the soul.
Dad and I stood outside his dialysis clinic and laughed. Here was a revered writer, speaker, and consultant staring at a pair of shorts around his ankles. His weight loss because of renal failure had turned Fat Fred into Svelte Smith. His size 46 shorts had taken a dive as he stood up from his wheelchair.

During our childhood he often re-minded us, "The things you cry about today you will laugh about tomorrow." Today and tomorrow collapsed into each other at that moment and we could do nothing but laugh. The indignities of failing health either break you or break you up. Dad and Mom chose to laugh.

It takes grace to both give and receive care. Dad loves to tell people that he is not disabled, but "delightfully dependent." He has accepted his new circumstances with poise and appreciation. It is good for Dad's grandchildren and great-grandchildren to watch the value of living long and living well. It is also good for them to see our dependence on God in all of this. A living faith is one of obedience and trust.

"Be a blessing" has always been our family's motto. I've been honored to see my parents fulfill that motto in their weakest and most vulnerable days.

Brenda A. Smith is managing director of the BWF Project Inc. in Dallas, and the author of Divine Confinement: Facing Seasons of Limitation (Executive Books). For more info, visit www.breakfastwithfred.com.

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