SermonStudio

R. Ellen Rasmussen

Even in the darkest of moments, the power of love can shine right through, crossing galaxies to calm and soothe. Here is one daughter's experience.

My father died four days before Easter, 1995. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of justice. Through his death, I experienced wailing and truly knew what it felt like to lose a part of my very being. I eventually realized that, because I could feel such a deep loss, I could also feel deep love.

Dad's death caused me to flashback to my high school years, when he worked nights and would always check to make sure I was home and in bed when he got home. Often, he would sit at the end of my bed and we would talk about what had happened that day, what was going on in school, whatever. The rest of the house was quiet, and Dad and I would talk. As I look back now, I see how wonderful and special that time really was.

During December of 1995, my mom had been ill. I finally got her to the hospital and had her admitted because she was dehydrated. I found out that morning it was more than that. As I walked into my mom's hospital room, I heard her doctor say, "It looks cancerous. We'll know more when we operate tomorrow." Without missing a beat, I continued to walk to my mom's bed and sit down. She didn't want anyone to know. It was our first Christmas without my dad and she didn't want my brothers and I worrying about her. The tumor causing an obstruction was small and they hoped to remove it all. I spent the day with my mom and then went home to make arrangements for my children to be with someone else so I could be at the hospital during her surgery.

That night I had a visit from my dad. Sitting at the foot of my bed, he was so real. His voice was so clear, and his eyes were filled with love. He told me, "Ellen, I know that you are going to do the best for your mom and I know how much you love her. Remember that I love her too, and I am waiting for her. I will take care of her when you no longer can." I woke up. I knew my dad had been there and I knew my mom was dying. I knew I didn't have much time. That was confirmed the next day. The surgery took longer than anticipated, and they said the tumor had already metastasized to her liver and lung. Later, I would learn that we had about six months, and that's just what we had.

My mom spent her last six months trying to get everything in place -- making sure my brothers would be okay, making sure that her mom was in an assisted living situation, making her funeral arrangements, making notes at work for the one who would replace her -- trying to make sure everything was just so. The last 36 hours were pretty rough. She didn't know who I was and kept calling me "Grandma Gray." She wanted me to make the pain go away. I was caring for her at home, and I had reached a point where I needed to get some sleep. I couldn't keep going, but she needed someone by her side. I finally convinced one of my brothers to come over.

I went downstairs to my room and tried to get some much needed sleep. I closed my eyes and all of a sudden my mom was at my doorway, just like she used to appear to get me up for school. In all of our conversations about everything, we had never talked about me. She asked me if I was going to be okay. I told her that I loved her and that I would miss her very much, but yes, eventually I would be okay. My mom left. I woke up with a start and bounded up the stairs. I ran past my startled brother, who asked what I was doing. I said, "Mom needs me." He said, "She's sleeping."

I lost Mom on May 10, 1996, the Friday before Mother's Day. I was blessed to share her final moments. I was able to hold her and tell her how much I loved her and how much I would miss her. She died in my arms, but I knew my dad and God were waiting for her, and that she went from one set of loving arms to another. She just had to wrap up that one loose end before she could go.