During the last year of Mom's life, although living in my home for the previous nine, I realized it would not be easy for either of us. She—always being quiet and with Bible in hand or lap—was always the unassuming Christian woman. She had been raised Bibically; her understanding of the life of a wife in a Christian home was one of love and understanding for others.

She was a good parent, doing what she thought best with particular circumstances. Raising two children—my brother and myself—our lives were simple, and, for me, one that was a given. I never felt as though I had been denied anything in my life time. I was always a believer in one does the best they can with what they have. It was not like me to envy others for those things they had acquired.

After years of living alone after Dad passed away, I continued to pursue the thoughts of Mom coming to live with me. After several years of pressing this issue, and after her declining health, we made it a reality. So, for ten years, my home became her home. We became very close. And, in the last several years of her life, it became exceedingly clear that she would need more and more of my help. Our decision to not have care providers in the home—rather it would be me caring for her—was a decision both of us realized. I left my professional work to stay at home with her 24/7. This was a choice both of us made.

When her health really began to decline, I knew I was really in for pulling on some resources to find my way through this. Working in long term care for numerous previous years, I knew when I counseled family members about their loved ones how I got involved. It was impossible for me not to care. Though I was not there with them, my heart went out to each and every one of them when the diagnosis was terminal. Families, for the most part, rallied together and got through it. This I did, time and time again.

Now, it was my turn.

I can remember the last few weeks of her life as though it were yesterday. Now, with my living room looking more and more like a hospital room—hospital bed, bedside commode, oxygen machines, bed pans and the like, it was clear to me this was going to be difficult on both of us. I tried day-after-day to stay strong. I can still see the pillow I kept in the kitchen. As I would stand there preparing breakfast or lunch for her, I would escape from her bedside and run to the kitchen. There, I could bury my head in that pillow so no audible crying could be heard. This I did every day. I would then straighten up, and do what I had to do for the next meal.

During the last few days, I would sit with her, alongside the hospital bed. We would talk. Sometimes, nothing would be said. Mom was now almost not speaking. I could remember how she would love to hear me sing. All of my life, I had a singing spirit. Mom used to tell the story of how, before I could walk, I would stand up in the crib and sing out. Grandma would pass by and pat me on the head, saying, "Sing on, Little Hen." I never forgot that story, and, to this day, it is a cherished memory for me.

I took out the song hymnal that meant so much to her. It was from the little country church in the town where I was born in Arkansas. In it, were the songs we loved to hear always. I opened the old pages, still intact, yet, the musty smell of a closed book came forth and memories of this little church came flooding back to me. As I began to sing, she would tap the pages, and, before I could finish, she would eagerly say, "Sing another," and this went on for some time. Hours, it seemed.

Within 24 hours, Mom began to really decline. She would call my name, and, I would hold her close. She would want me to hold her because she felt she was dying at that very moment. As I climbed over the railing, and holding her in my arms, I wanted her to remember this as she would peacefully slip into heaven. Each time, she remained with me and in my arms. This happened so many times during the days and evenings to come.

Each time, I treated it as though this would be her last moments on this earth.

Each time, I would have the pillow in the kitchen. Each time, the sobs would come. Mom called me this time.

I ran to the living room. I held her. She told me something I shall never forget.

She told me of Jesus, and, seeing heaven. She told me Jesus was coming for her. She also said that she told Him "No" … "I cannot go". I said, "Now, Mom, you know you and I have talked about this … and it is ok for you to let go. It is alright … I am here … "

Mom said: "I told Jesus that I could not go with Him" … "because there was something I had to do…"

I said, "Mom, what was that?"

She replied, "I told Jesus that I had not kissed you goodbye … and that I needed to return to kiss you goodbye."

I kissed and held Mom for what seemed like hours that evening.

Mom met Jesus the next day.

Mom—the wonderful, unassuming Christian woman. All my life, her love and spirituality has been an inspiration to me. I should have such love. for others, and, for my Lord and Savior.

Copyright © 2002 Saundra Rae. All rights reserved.

Comments (1)

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written by Lula, March 30, 2008

I can't tell you how much this has touched me. I have been on this very same path. You sound like such a wonderful person. The Lord bless you for all you have done. Mom died in my arms also as I was singing to Christian praise music. I felt the Lord right there with us. I'll never forget it.