I never did write about the last conversations I had with my mother before her death. I've left these out mainly because it hurt too much. The pain was so fresh, I thought it would tear my heart out. But it is the only piece still missing in this story, so I will give it a try now.
I am a Christian. A follower of Christ. I believe that Christ is the Son of God, that He came to earth as a baby to live a sinless life and to die, crucified, on the cross. This He did to atone for my sin, to pay the penalty I could not pay. I believe that He rose again on the third day and now resides in Heaven at the Father's right hand. It is by the grace of God alone that He called me by name and saved me. This not of myself. I did nothing. I was raised a Roman Catholic. I was taught that yes, Christ died on the cross for my sin, but I had to work my way into heaven, nonetheless. This is a lie. Those who believe this, or any other "gospel" are headed for hell. Full stop. My mother was a Roman Catholic her entire life. I had tried, many times, over the years to share the truth with her. Early on I was zealous, later on I was more discreet. Trusting God's will to be done, which it always is.
I made sure that my mother knew how much I loved her and what a wonderful mother she was. She said that she hoped God thought so too. It was here that I shared the gospel with her. I
made sure she knew that it was through Christ alone that she will enter
Heaven. That she could never be good enough, because no one is. Before I left I tore out pages from my Charles Spurgeon devotional and
left them on the table for her. These pages clearly explained the
gospel, in more eloquent words. Clearly my mother had read these
pages. She brought them with her to the hospital this last time. She
must have read them, they were in with her prayer cards. So she knew the truth.
I told her that all the best in me was because of her. I told her I loved her very much. I held her tightly. I didn't cry. I had to hold it together, for my daughter. For me. I wasn't very eloquent in my speech, I was holding back tears. I knew my mom was in so much pain, although she never told me as much (protecting her baby until the last). I said my last good bye.
Our last visit had to end. I had prolonged our stay for a week to help care for her when she came home from the hospital . This I did, non stop. I was exhausted when the day came for us to depart. Even now, nearly three years later, I cry remembering that day. On previous visits I would always think, "maybe this is the last time I will see her alive." Half-heartedly, but a thought, nonetheless. This time I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I would never see my mother alive again. If I could put into words what it felt like leaving that day, I would. But there really are no words.
When we left, we headed east for a special two-day birthday surprise for my daughter. Upon arriving at our hotel I called my mom to tell her of our safe arrival. We talked for a few minutes. My mom asked me if I was happy. I answered the best I could at that moment. She knew she was dying. She knew that her time on this earth was limited, so she wanted to tie up loose ends. I reassured her that I would be fine, that I loved her so very much. And then the call ended. I wish I had talked to her longer that day.
Even now, nearly three years later, I have difficulty adequately recounting the events of those last days. Of all my siblings (with the exception of my brother who lives close by her) I was the last to have a visit with our mother, as our mother. By the time my sisters got there she was already in the last stages of her journey to death. I should feel blessed that I had that time with her, and I do, but I was not there the day she died. Everyone else was. I feel that something is left undone...and there is no way to complete it. I suppose, with time, the feeling with fade - maybe. Who knows. It doesn't really matter now. She's gone.
I realize that this is post is basic, at best. I have written as best as I can. The details will remain in my heart forever, as I relive those days when I miss her most. One day, hopefully not long from now, I will remember the happier, more pleasant times. But for now, for me, I am still grieving the loss of my mother. Yes, almost three years now. You can not put a time limit on grief. It is what it is, and for me - it is.
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