This month, in 1986, 40 years ago, my mother passed away after a long extended battle with breast cancer. I often think about her and how I wish she was still with me. I wonder what she would think about my kids and how much she would adore her great grandsons (she always loved boys), I think about the dreams we had of traveling the world together and finally getting to go to Israel and walk where Jesus walked. But, it was not to be. So I hold on to the memories and the laughs and her infectious smile.

I was going through some old papers that my father kept and I found this story I wrote about her a few short days after she died. It made me cry (and smile) and it reminded me of how I have always used written words to express those feelings that often seem hard to express out loud to others. So, here they are–the thoughts from 40 years ago treasured and kept for my grandsons to one day read and possibly know a little bit about their great grandmother Granny Sue.

---

She is gone. I only realized it myself a moment ago and I am still trying to sort out my mind-which at times races away with thoughts of the past and my heart, which cannot seem to find a replacement for the emptiness that I feel. I truly wish it were all a dream-a terrible nightmare that I could be awakened from by a dose of cold water or the shake of a loved one. But, as someone once said, it is not to be.

I don’t know what it is about the bond between a mother and her children that makes it so difficult for us to let go. Even after the apron strings have long since been severed, we can always go running back to our mothers for the shelter that no one else seems to be able to offer. I guess that bond begins at birth-at least it did for me. Don’t misinterpret, because I would be foolish to claim any real memories from that moment; except to say that as far back as I can remember, my mother has always been there for me. It seems so perplexing and just a bit inconceivable for the roles to be reversed and for me to find myself in a situation of being there for her. But I have come to realize that our lives are a circle-“from dust we came and to dust we shall return.”

Memories at time have tortured me. There were so many unpleasant moments, especially toward the end. Moments that wreak of suffering and confusion and finally death. Pictures that have clouded my mind with negatives and resistance to hope and have somehow squeezed out the laughter and the joy of the early years we spent together. These are years that are crucial to my survival in the days to come. Years that I must recapture if I am to go on and remember her with joy and thankfulness for the time that we shared.

A personality emerged in the last years of her life that endears her to me and to others. I suppose as a child and even as an adult I never saw her as a fighter. She seemed to be fairly passive and always agreeable and accepting of obstacles that might get in her way. I expected her to respond in the same way as she was confronted with the inevitable consequences of her illness. Instead, she relied on a faith that gave her the ability to resist the pronouncement of doom and see in whatever happened the all-knowing, never-ending love of God.

I asked myself many times, knowing what the medical profession knew about cancer and flooding our eyes and ears with facts, statistics, and realities; how could she continue to have hope. In several instances when all of those around her, including myself, seemed to look pessimistically at the end, she would give us a glimmer of hope and loan us some of her faith to see us through. Even until the last moment, she had me and her doctors convinced that she was going to surprise us all.

It seems everyone believes and embraces the thought that “this could never happen to me or my family.” But with impartial regularity the diseases that grip our bodies come crashing in on our lives. At one point, I became keenly aware of death and the inevitable finality of it.

And in spite of the fact that there are no accidents in our lives as Christians and God is always in control, death is and always will be no respecter of persons. As our creator has so lovingly reminded us “for everything there is a season and a time and a purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die.” Perhaps for my mother and for me, it came too soon, but nevertheless, it came.

God chose not to work a miracle by giving her continued life. He chose, as he has in times past, to accomplish his purpose through her illness and subsequent death. In capsule form, it sounds so matter of fact and unemotionally accepting. Yes, she did hope in vain for something that was not to be. Yes, she had faith in a God who on the surface would not come through. Yes, no matter how often her recovery was ripped away, she fought back only to be defeated once again. And yes, ultimately, all the faith in the world was not enough to keep her from dying that day. But as I examine in retrospect the lives she touched throughout her illness, I see God’s hand.

I remember the faces of our friends who wondered how she could survive so much hardship and believe God loved her. I recall the doctors shocked expressions more than once, when she made a recovery after they had given up hope. I am reminded of the times of closeness at her bedside that might not have been if life had gone on as usual. I can see the tears of the nurses as they spoke to us the last moments of her life. Even in her death, her light was shining. She had hope that made others question the God she worshipped. And in her death, as it was swallowed up in victory, her Savior was glorified.

Even in her death, my mother has left me with an inheritance that cannot be taken away. I have her laughter, her faith, her joy, her hope, and her love. These shall never change although she is gone. We cannot know how many eternal changes occurred during her short time on this earth. She touched many lives and opened many hearts through her love. These are the changes that matter-the ones that will stand throughout eternity. Only God knows the final outcome and sees the total picture. Our vision is impaired by our humanity. Nothing else seems to matter now except the love that we shared. So few are blessed to have had such a relationship as we.

Where is my hope? It can only be in God. He is my compensation. He is my refuge. He is my deliverer. His grace is sufficient to carry me through this deep valley. If she can sing his praises on the threshold of death, confident that God’s plan is perfect, I can gather together reasons to hope, trust, and believe.

What do I do since things did not work out as I had hoped and planned? I do as David and Paul and so many others did and say, “Not my will, but thine, Oh Lord.” I must accept. And I cannot despair that prayer to heal her was not answered. Because, in His own way, He has healed my mother. She is whole, and perfect, and in the presence of the one who gave her life.

No matter how lonely I feel at this moment, I know He is there. I ask for the comfort He has promised. For the promise to meet me at my time of need. For the grace to carry me through. And in return, I give Him my trust, for if it was enough for my mother, it will be enough for me.

Yes,

I will miss her.

And I will wish and hope

It was not so.

And I can see her smile

As she stood before Jesus.

But, Oh Lord,

I will miss her so.