Mom

Thirty-seven years ago on August 11, my mom left her worn out body and moved to Heaven. She was still young (in terms of dying, at least), not even to her mid 60’s, but she simply wore out. A lifelong smoking habit (which she stopped cold turkey with great difficulty a few years prior) had taken its toll on her lungs. In turn, to keep breathing, she became dependent on steroids, and they had taken an unseen toll on some of her other internal organs.

A week before she passed, she underwent a simple procedure to remove her ovaries. The concern we had at the time was that the pain she had been experiencing may have been cancer, but we received the post-op “all-clear”—the removed ovaries were simply calcified; and we rejoiced.

The next afternoon, however, my dad called. “Come home right away. Your mother is dying.”

I called my friends, Jack and Mary, who I knew would pray with me about it. I slept on their couch that night after praying with them so I could make the four-hour drive to Springfield, MO in daylight.

That August morning, Springfield was gloomy and dank; the sun was nowhere to be seen. I parked at the hospital and found Mom in her room with my dad sitting beside her bed, concern etched on both faces.

Later that day as my dad was holding her hand, she said to us, “Let me go!” Dad quickly pulled his hand away, and she said emphatically, “No! Hold my hand but let me go! I want to go to Heaven!”

The next day after tests, the team had discovered the problem: while removing the ovaries, they had accidentally perforated her small intestines (according to the team, they were tissue paper thin due to her continued use of steroids), and they were decaying within her at the rate of an inch per hour.

As soon as an operating room was available, she was whisked away for emergency surgery. She never regained consciousness and remained in a coma for two more days before she died.

My friend Betsy showed up to support me while Mom was unconscious. I will never forget how graciously she spoke to my mom about what a wonderful mother she had been for me, how she had instilled a love of nature and good character into me. I watched my mom’s face as Betsy spoke to her and saw a tear roll down her cheek. Speak kindly and speak encouragingly to those you love who are seemingly unconscious. They will likely hear you. Let your words be life to them as Betsy’s were.

When Mom passed, I was exactly half her age; I was the age she was when she gave birth to me.

I knew she went to Heaven. Although she never spoke much about her faith, she made it very clear one day while listening to a debate between my ex-brother-in-law and me. He contended that Jesus was merely a good man; He never was supposed to be an object of faith. Of course, I disagreed and was diving into the argument.

Then my mom interrupted us. She spoke with calm confidence and said something to the effect of “You know, I never really raised my kids to believe the way Dorothy does, but she is right. Jesus is the only way to God the Father.” It was a mic drop moment, and the topic changed.

I had two very unusual experiences as well before that sad week in August that showed me, first of all, that God was ordering my steps, and second, that my mom was indeed Heaven-bound.

You see, I had been planning an exciting vacation to start the first week of August with my friend Ellen. We were going to drive down the Gulf side of Florida and up the Atlantic side, alternately camping out and staying in motels until time or money ran out. But during the last two weeks of July a sense of gloom and anxiety started growing so much that whenever I prayed about the trip, I felt nothing but dread. It was like I was being tackled in my spirit. I had to break the news to my friend that I didn’t know why, but I could not proceed with our planned trip.

On August 11, when Mom died, Ellen and I would have been somewhere camping on a beach. And since there were no cell phones back then, no one would have been able to reach me. God wanted me by my mom’s side and “tackled” me in that unusual way to make sure I would be there.

The second unusual experience happened the day before her “simple” surgery. I felt rotten. My throat was sore, and my head and body were aching, telltale signs of flu. I went to bed that night still bummed about missing my “dream vacation” and sick as could be.

In the middle of the night as I slept, I dreamed that someone was praying for me. The love I felt as they prayed in a heavenly language while placing their hands on my aching shoulders and back, was tangible. I turned around in my dream to see who this amazing person could be, and there she was—my mom. Now understand, in all my years with her she never prayed with me, but that prayer was so real, so powerful, and so full of love I wept in my sleep.

And in the morning, I woke up 100% well. She had prayed in my dream, and the signs of a believer had followed her. (See Mark 16:17 and 18.)

As I remember that impactful time, although the sadness was raw and real, the sense of utter peace and comfort was every bit as real to me as well. I know I will see my mom again. ❤

Dorothy