Three weeks and two days ago my father died. He was all of 61 years old. He was a man of laughter, music, and impatience. My father had no greater love in this world than my mother. She awoke from the cot beside his hospital bed in the room that once upon a time, before this cancer had claimed it, had been theirs. The hospice nurse at her feet softly whispered to her that the end was close; he was only moments from his last breath. Moments she used to tell her husband she loved him and that God loved him. She kissed him one last time and then, just as she had promised, she held his hand and walked him to the gates of Heaven. She knew she couldn’t go any further, but many who loved him would be waiting to take his hand. .
This could be a story of any loving wife and her ill husband in their last earthly moments, but to understand, you must go back and then you must go forward. You must know that the 37 years my parents were married were not all easy ones. My father was not a Christian. He did not take hold of Jesus until those final weeks, after the Cancer took most of his ability to communicate clearly. My mom had been a faithful and devoted servant of Jesus all her life. There were times these differences caused their outlooks on life to be so far apart. Yet even in the hardest times, she stood beside him, loved him, prayed that God would hold him, and that Dad would know His love.
Three weeks and three days ago, I turned 34 years old. For 34 years my mom has been the hands & feet of Jesus in my world. She has stood beside me with quiet strength through skinned knees, broken hearts, the births of all three of my children, the death of her mother, and of my father. In each of these moments, with simple grace, she prayed. Each week she made the Sunday journey to church with my brothers and me in tow. We were encouraged to be active in youth group, always challenged to ask questions, think for ourselves, seek God, question God, and love God. Religion was never forced; faith was always a piece of our lives. She always walked the walk. I have never questioned who my mother is or where her beliefs lie. They are obvious, out there for the world to see, never pushed on anyone or spoken with a judgmental air. Because of the example she set, her children have been blessed with a heart that seeks, loves, and knows Him. We take her into the world with us everyday. Even from hundreds of miles away she is still showing us how to be the body of Christ. Each day she inspires us to make a joyful noise, to dance, to sing, and to laugh. At the end of each day, praise, pray, and simply be still and know that He is God.
She carried these lessons beyond just her children, beyond just our home. She was not a meeting go’er, she was not a committee member, and she was not a social activist, at least not on a large scale. She was and is a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a teacher. Each day she carries her faith, her joy, and her passion into a kindergarten classroom in a public school. And there, once again she is the face of Jesus, his hands, touching little hearts with His love. She does this not by lecturing or by teaching things not approved by the public schools, but by loving, by encouraging, by praying for each of those children, by praying not only for them, but for their homes and their families. She knows each of these children is a gift from God, entrusted to her care.
Since my father’s death my mom has laughed, my Dad would be proud of her for that. She has yelled at God to bring him back to her. She has wept and let God hold her against his chest. She has continued, without words, to teach us that life goes on. Through the sadness, there is laughter. Through grey skies, sunlight shines. Through the snow, spring returns and flowers bloom.
Today, somewhere many, many miles away from here, a gentle, graceful woman of God returns to a bright, vital kindergarten classroom for the first time since walking her husband and friend to the gates. She is a little nervous, a bit hesitant, and slightly overwhelmed, but her spirit is calm, she knows God is holding her. Grasping on to this knowledge, allowing herself to feel His arms surrounding her, she steps in and smiles, knowing somewhere deep within her, that this is the day the Lord has made.
This could be a story of any loving wife and her ill husband in their last earthly moments, but to understand, you must go back and then you must go forward. You must know that the 37 years my parents were married were not all easy ones. My father was not a Christian. He did not take hold of Jesus until those final weeks, after the Cancer took most of his ability to communicate clearly. My mom had been a faithful and devoted servant of Jesus all her life. There were times these differences caused their outlooks on life to be so far apart. Yet even in the hardest times, she stood beside him, loved him, prayed that God would hold him, and that Dad would know His love.
Three weeks and three days ago, I turned 34 years old. For 34 years my mom has been the hands & feet of Jesus in my world. She has stood beside me with quiet strength through skinned knees, broken hearts, the births of all three of my children, the death of her mother, and of my father. In each of these moments, with simple grace, she prayed. Each week she made the Sunday journey to church with my brothers and me in tow. We were encouraged to be active in youth group, always challenged to ask questions, think for ourselves, seek God, question God, and love God. Religion was never forced; faith was always a piece of our lives. She always walked the walk. I have never questioned who my mother is or where her beliefs lie. They are obvious, out there for the world to see, never pushed on anyone or spoken with a judgmental air. Because of the example she set, her children have been blessed with a heart that seeks, loves, and knows Him. We take her into the world with us everyday. Even from hundreds of miles away she is still showing us how to be the body of Christ. Each day she inspires us to make a joyful noise, to dance, to sing, and to laugh. At the end of each day, praise, pray, and simply be still and know that He is God.
She carried these lessons beyond just her children, beyond just our home. She was not a meeting go’er, she was not a committee member, and she was not a social activist, at least not on a large scale. She was and is a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a teacher. Each day she carries her faith, her joy, and her passion into a kindergarten classroom in a public school. And there, once again she is the face of Jesus, his hands, touching little hearts with His love. She does this not by lecturing or by teaching things not approved by the public schools, but by loving, by encouraging, by praying for each of those children, by praying not only for them, but for their homes and their families. She knows each of these children is a gift from God, entrusted to her care.
Since my father’s death my mom has laughed, my Dad would be proud of her for that. She has yelled at God to bring him back to her. She has wept and let God hold her against his chest. She has continued, without words, to teach us that life goes on. Through the sadness, there is laughter. Through grey skies, sunlight shines. Through the snow, spring returns and flowers bloom.
Today, somewhere many, many miles away from here, a gentle, graceful woman of God returns to a bright, vital kindergarten classroom for the first time since walking her husband and friend to the gates. She is a little nervous, a bit hesitant, and slightly overwhelmed, but her spirit is calm, she knows God is holding her. Grasping on to this knowledge, allowing herself to feel His arms surrounding her, she steps in and smiles, knowing somewhere deep within her, that this is the day the Lord has made.
3 comments:
Beautiful Marci
WOW!
Oh man. I love you guys. You made me cry. I still love you though. What a great woman. Universally admired in our family.
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