Holy, Holy, Holy

One year ago, my sweet mom was taken to the hospital with pressure in her brain. We didn’t know it then, but she would never return home.

I had been camping for the weekend in a place with no phone service, so discovering my mom’s location as I reentered civilization was distressing to say the least. At first she was unable to communicate. She was disoriented, scared, and in pain. The doctors didn’t have a clear timeline for when, or if she’d regain mentation (she temporarily did). I’m so grateful we got a few weeks with her as her old self. We had “sleepovers” (aka I stayed in her room as late as I possibly could while we watched Murder She Wrote and ordered in) and listened to music. I was able to get her service dog in her room fairly regularly; she was an instant hit with the hospital staff. My mom wanted to give every person who cared for her a thank you note and a gift bag. That was just her way.

In the year since those disorienting days, one day in particular sticks out. Mom was having a “bad” day (it’s difficult for me to imagine what a good day looks like with stage four cancer, but her level of perseverance meant her scale was so different from mine). She was in pain for the better part of ten years, but rarely showed it. This day, everyone knew.

My sister and brother-in-law had driven down and were camping out at the hospital with us. I had brought my guitar, hoping to bring some relief or amusement. I had just helped lead worship at church that weekend, and it was the first time in two years that mom wasn’t able to be there.

She asked if we’d sing the song I led all together and charged my dad with recording it.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God almighty.
Who was and is and is to come.”

As we sang, I watched her pained expression turn to absolute peace. She began to hold out both of her hands and weep. Wherever she was, it was not the hospital room. We finished and she was still crying.

“I saw Him. He was right there.” She pointed to a place I couldn’t see. “He was so… so beautiful. I can’t even describe.”

I looked around and saw nothing but the wood-paneled wall behind me.

“Jesus. His arms were stretched out to me. Rainbows and colors I can’t…so beautiful.” She continued to weep and we held her.

My mom never went back to her earthly home, but I know that she entered into the presence of the same Jesus she saw as we sang. The peace that came over her clenched body was real and the effects were visible. After that afternoon, her mind was at peace. She was calmer and more confident. She even began reconciling with those in her life with whom there had been a rift. My sister explained that the Lord was perfecting her love right up until her last days.

I have never felt less afraid to die after watching her die so well. I believe that the Lord, the God who was and is and is to come, truly showed up in that room to comfort my mom, and in a way, to comfort me.

On days when all I can do is cry and miss her, I go back to that afternoon and receive hope.

This world is not our forever home, and thank goodness, because most days it’s a garbage fire. But praise God for the hope of our forever home through Jesus.

Praise God that there is a plan of rescue, and that that plan began thousands of years ago on a cross when the creator of the world died for you.

Praise God that there is a purpose for us while we live and a place for us when we die. It’s the place where my mom waits until I see her again—right by His side.