Tag: hope

The following is an update on my mother and her life since I wrote my original testimony.

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There are lyrics that sometimes come to mind when I think of my mother – “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger…”

My mother tried to maintain some sense of normalcy in my early childhood. I see pictures of her looking radiant and beautiful on their wedding day, and she worked with the Phoenix Mountains Preservation Council and led our Girl Scout troop. 

At the same time she looked like an active, productive woman, wife, and mother, she was also playing with ouija boards, tarot cards, and seeing things none of the rest of us saw.  Her mind and personality began to change, or perhaps be revealed. At some point her health began to decline, and her past collided with the spiritual darkness she dabbled in, and it all came back to haunt her, and all of us. 

As a child, though, all I knew was my mother didn’t love me. By the time I was 17 and left home at her request, irreversible damage had been done to our whole family.

After I was saved several years later, I tried desperately to have some kind of relationship with her. I prayed for her salvation. I invited her to church and to a women’s retreat. But it always went horribly, painfully wrong. And I knew if I was ever going to have a chance to heal, I was going to have to let go of my desire to have a relationship with my mother. That dream would have to remain a dream. And so it was.

My mother had always agonized over tragedies she’d endured as a child, a teenager, and a young adult, but it was not that long ago that one of her sisters told me that as a child my mother had once purposely jumped in front of car. Something had been wrong for a long time, maybe from the womb. I do know she held a lot of pain inside her mind and heart. 

The longer I lived the more I came to understand the effect all that pain could have on a person, especially when that person doesn’t know Christ. And the more I walked with Christ, the more He gave me the ability to forgive her. And the more I was able to forgive her, and He began to heal my own mind and heart and fill them with His grace and mercy, the more empathy I had for my mother.

Then one early morning I got a call from my sister saying our mother’s health was severely declining, that she probably wouldn’t be with us much longer, and did I want to go see her? I opened God’s Word and prayed about it over the next hour or so, asking Him to speak to my heart and show me what to do. His still, small voice prompted me to go. 

We visited her in the assisted living place she now called home.  I sat on her bed in front of her with my new mind and new heart, and told her I loved her. She laid there and looked me in the eyes with a slight smile on her face. What little she did try to say my sister had to interpret.  I held her hand and we just looked at each other. She wasn’t throwing things, screaming, or calling me names. She was looking at me with love in her eyes. We were able to communicate a bit, and had a picture taken of the three of us. That day was the only good memory I have of my mother, and I am grateful the Lord allowed me to have it.

Though in the past she’d claimed to be a Christian, I never saw any fruit of it, so I continued to pray the Lord would have mercy on her. He knew the truth, whether she had ever been converted or not, and I trusted Him to do what needed to be done for the salvation of her soul. 

I was able to make a couple more trips to see her, once while her eyes were still open, and again after she’d slipped into unconsciousness. Still, I knew my God wasn’t limited to our state of awareness of this world, and I continued to pray.  I prayed the Lord would not let her go until she had received Him as Lord and Savior and was filled with the redeeming, sealing, promised Holy Spirit.

The nurses said she didn’t have much longer, yet she continued to live, and I continued to pray.  A trained hospice worker said she probably wouldn’t live more than 24 hours, yet she continued to live, and I continued to pray. Wherever her mind and heart were in this state, Jesus was there.  And maybe He had her attention more during that time than ever before. Over the next week I kept praying for mercy, for grace, and for saving faith to fill her. And then one day, she was gone.  

Only God knows what happened in those twilight hours, but I am trusting He heard my prayers.

And I am trusting that one day we will all be together again, perfected in Christ and filled with love for one another the way we were always meant to be, basking in the joy of Christ forever and ever.

For His Glory,

I thought I’d write an update about what God did for each of my parents in the years since I wrote my testimony.  I’ll start with my dad.

***

My dad wasn’t sick a day in his life.  Well, not in the physical sense.  I don’t remember him ever having a cold or a stomach bug.  Nothing.  But there was something hidden deep inside him, something even he would later be hard-pressed to articulate, that made him turn to alcohol.  I do know that he had a quiet, expressive soul, and that combination is a hard one to deal with.

Most days of my childhood I could smell the alcohol on him, except for the days he didn’t come home.  Still, he was kind and willing to listen when I needed someone to talk to.

I left home a month or two after high school graduation. The next time I saw my dad a couple of months later he had aged more than I thought he should have. After that I didn’t see much of my parents for a number of years until after their divorce, and I was able to talk to my dad again.

When I became a Christian, I wanted more than anything for my family members to be saved and our family restored. I thought about it, I hoped for it, I prayed about it. 

Sometime while I was away, my dad quit drinking.  He’d had an experience that frightened him and made him stop.  So without the alcohol, and without my mother, we were able to reconnect.

Both of us being chatterboxes, we’d talk on the phone for long stretches at a time.  We’d theorize and philosophize about everything under the sun.  And every now and then I’d try to work into the conversation my very favorite topic – Jesus. 

My dad would be struggling with something and I’d tell him about the One who knows how to untangle life’s messes.  He’d be hard-pressed to understand something else and I’d tell him about the One who gives peace.

I ‘d talk to him about salvation, I wrote him long notes explaining the way to salvation, and his answer was always the same: “I’m trying.”

I’d tell him “Dad, you don’t have to try, just believe in Jesus.”  Still, salvation hung in the air, ungrasped, year after year.  And during those prayers I lifted up for my dad, the Lord would sometimes speak in that still, small voice, letting me know that it wouldn’t be until just before his death that he would finally receive Him.

A few years later I got a call from my aunt letting me know my dad was sick.  The worst kind of sick.  He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone for fear they’d look at him or treat him differently.  I called my dad and we had a hard conversation. He continued to work until it was impossible.

It was May, and I got another call from my aunt letting me know Dad was in the hospital.  I rushed there, day after day, and sat next to him, holding his hand. His mind was already starting to go.  He didn’t know where he was or even what year it was. I kept praying and had others praying, too.

One morning someone called, I can’t remember who, to say he’d had some kind of seizure, or something. Our assistant pastor and his wife, our dear friends, graciously met me at the hospital.

There were no more seizures, and the funny thing was, he now knew what year it was. Pastor T went in to talk with him and when he came back out sometime later, he said he’d asked my dad if he wanted to pray to receive Jesus, and my dad said yes. Grasped.

Almost immediately after that, he was a candidate for hospice.  One never knows if a hospice bed is going to become available, and if so, how long it will take.  But one opened up almost immediately, and the one God chose was perfect.

It was in a home with a beautiful garden. If there was anything my dad loved, it was gardening.  He loved the soil (don’t call it dirt!), he loved earthworms, he loved planting.  We used to say that once he was able to retire from civil service he should work at a nursery. He would have loved it.

My family, my sister and her family, and my aunt, uncle and cousin sat outside among the gardens eating together for Memorial Day while the hospice workers looked after Dad. We wished so much he could have enjoyed the beauty with us.

The next morning I got a call at 6 am from one of the hospice workers saying he probably didn’t have much longer.  I quickly dressed and drove the several miles to get there. 

I walked into the room and my cousin was standing by his bed, telling me he had just passed. His beautiful blue, tear-filled eyes were still open. I had just missed him.  Still, I held his hand again, and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

My Heavenly Father had, in a miraculous way, kept His promise.  Whatever that seizure was, God allowed a moment in time for my dad to be aware, and our friends to be there at just the right time, so he could believe in Jesus and receive Him, and I could have that assurance.  That was just five days before he stood before the Lord, washed clean of his sins, and was welcomed with open arms. The peace and joy that had always alluded him in this life was now his forever.

I think about the day I’ll see him again when nothing, and no one, will ever separate us again, and I thank my Heavenly Father for this most precious of gifts.

Eternally Grateful,