End Times and My Revelation

I don't think I taught my kids about the last days.

I know I talked to them constantly about God's will for their lives, and how God has plans for them, sometimes in the most unusual ways. I know I talked to them about how to spend their money wisely, and how to be a good steward of their gifts and resources. I talked to them about being generous to someone in need. I taught them to work as though unto The Lord. I know I told them to follow their convictions and to recognize the still voice of The Lord.

I know I taught them to be honest, no matter the cost, and I talked to them about how God knows everything about them, even if I don't. I know I discussed with them how to honor God by how they present themselves, by their character. I know I taught them to love others more than they love themselves. I taught them about spiritual warfare, and how the devil works to destroy us, but God is our refuge.

I know I talked to them about how to be a good husband and father someday. I taught them they need to be servants and helpers. I know I taught them to pray and seek God in all things, even the little stuff. I know I talked to them continuously about all these things, so much so that they got tired of hearing it.

But I am sitting here tonight wondering...did I teach them about the last days?

I'm so afraid I didn't. I'm sure they learned some in Sunday School lessons. I know they must have picked up some of our conversations with friends or family over the years when we discussed world events and watching how things were lining up as the Bible said they would. They watched many times as our church performed Easter dramas depicting the death and return of Our Lord. Still, I'm afraid I failed them in teaching them to look for the signs and to really realize that Jesus is returning soon, likely in their lifetime, I believe.

I'm not sure why I never really thought to discuss Jesus's return fully with them. Maybe it was just too scary for kids to know about all that had to happen before He returns. Maybe I was so sure of each of their salvation experiences that I figured they won't be here for the really scary stuff during the tribulation. I'm just not really sure why it never came up, but I just don't remember that it did.

As I have watched the rioting and destruction on television this week, I can't help but wonder how much more defiance God is going to tolerate. How much more hurt can the world endure? I truly believe we are seeing the birthing pains the Bible refers to right before our eyes.

Matthew 24:4-14

Jesus answered: “Watch out that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am the Messiah,’ and will deceive many. You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of birth pains."

“Then you will be handed over to be persecuted and put to death, and you will be hated by all nations because of me. At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other, and many false prophets will appear and deceive many people. Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, but the one who stands firm to the end will be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come."

2 Timothy 3 (NIV)

But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy,  without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God— having a form of godliness but denying its power. Have nothing to do with such people.


I have never seen as much upheaval in the world as we are seeing now, not just the violence that's happening among people, but also the natural disasters that seem to come closer together with each event, along with the plague of Coronavirus we are currently experiencing.

I hope my grown kids read this, and I hope they will seek answers on their own. I pray that they are sure they are ready when Jesus comes. I hope they will forgive me for not fully preparing them for whatever is to come, even if it happens 50 years from now when they are old men. I hope they will know how important it will be to one day make sure their own kids know these truths I failed to teach them. I pray that when The Lord comes back to rapture us they are sure that their names are written in the Lambs Book of Life, that they are certain they are saved in that moment. I pray they are looking up and are ready, awaiting to meet our Savior on that glorious day.

Titanium Heart

My heart was broken recently. Actually, my heart has been broken many times over the years.

I don't really consider myself an overly sensitive person. I'm not easily hurt, nor am I easily offended. I tend to think with logic over emotions. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt before I react to them. I'm tough, and I have endured more than my share of heartaches and have come out stronger for each of them. I've grown and matured through the tough times way more than I ever have through the easiest of times. Yet still, I have feelings, and they are deep..I would venture to say, deeper than most people feel. I think because I am relatively resilient, when I do get hurt I get deeply hurt.

I got to thinking this week about my friend Danny. He was in a motorcycle accident a few years ago and was seriously injured. We really weren't sure if he would ever be the same, but by the grace of The Good Lord, he eventually came back home good as new!

One of the injuries Danny suffered was a broken femur. To repair it, the surgeon put in a titanium rod. Titanium is one of the strongest metals there is, and it has many other advantages when used to repair our broken parts. For example, it's not corrosive, and it is lightweight. Can you imagine a rusty peice of tin holding your leg together? Or your leg weighing a couple of pounds more than it did before? I'm pretty sure if you have to have surgery to repair a broken bone, you are going to want titanium before any other material!

It crossed my mind today that life would be much easier if we could have our hearts replaced with a titanium heart. How great it would be to have a heart that is so strong that we don't feel the fiery darts the devil constantly bombards us with! For our hearts to always feel lightweight, and not burdened with the hurts and disappointments of this world. To have a heart that is unbreakable... seems like a wonderful thing!

God's word, however, leads us to avoid having a titanium heart. He wants us to instead have a heart of gold! Gold, in opposition to titanium, is soft. It's also pliable, and can be reshaped fairly easily. Gold can be turned into liquid, but the amazing part of that is that even in it's weakest form, it is still gold! It can't ever be destroyed! Even though titanium, the stronger metal of the two, can be destroyed under the right chemicals and elements, gold is virtually indestructible. It may change into tiny bits under pressure, but it's still gold and will be forever!

So, in contemplating having a titanium heart transplant this morning, I was instead reminded of God's heart of gold for me, and I know He expects me to have a heart of gold for others. It doesn't mean my gold heart won't be tested. It will certainly be refined from time to time. It will be melted here and there, and reshaped as time goes, but it will never be destroyed. As gold lives on forever, I hope my heart will too.

Proverbs 17:3 (NIV)
The crucible for silver and the furnace for gold,  but the Lord tests the heart

Ezekiel 36:26 (NIV)
I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.

The Rest Stop

For as long as I can remember I have been taking care of someone. My older brother still likes to tell how I waited on him when we were kids, and all he had to do was mention he wanted something and I ran and got it for him. I don't remember ever questioning why I should wait on him 'hand and foot', I just did.

I fully believe God hard-wires us for the tasks He has planned for us here on Earth. I think He created me to care for others. That may be why being a mom has been my most valued role to me in my life. There has never been anything that compared to the fulfillment that being a mom has brought to my heart.

Last year, my role as a mom began to change dramatically as two of my three sons got married. I am thrilled for them to be doing what they are supposed to be doing (and what we trained them to do!), becoming leaders of their own households and establishing lives of their own. Dave and I are super proud of all our boys, and there is much satisfaction in seeing the flourishing fruits of all the labor that goes into raising kids. But still, it's hard on moms to give up the role of caregiver to their babies.

About three years before my boys' weddings my parents began needing help. Mom became deathly ill, and one  morning around 3:00 a.m., I got a call from their home security company saying a medical emergency alarm was sounding at their house. We jumped out of bed and flew out the door, flying toward their house as I frantically tried to call. No one answered any of their phones. I was sure I would find one or both of them dead. I played out every scenario possible in my head, and none of them were good. When we got there, I saw fire trucks and ambulances lining their street, and as Dave pulled the car over I got out and ran as fast as I could toward their house, almost collapsing as I reached the front door, dreading to see what I might find inside.

I whispered a prayer that God would prepare me before I walked in, and I heard my dad talking as I opened the door. "Thank God!! At least Dad's ok!", I thought, as I entered the bedroom where he was standing. Mom was lying on the floor, completely unaware of who she was or what was going on. It is miracle she lived through all she had going on that night.

We had to sit down with Dad later that day and convince him it was time to make some changes. They lived in a split foyer, and there was no way in or out except by stairs. Many of the possible scenarios I saw in my mind that night involved my crippled Dad falling down the stairs, bleeding to death, and Mom too sick to help him.

I still remember my dad sitting in mom's recliner, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to negotiate ways to stay in their home. I saw my dad as helpless for the first time in my life. That day marks the beginning of my caregiver role for Mom and Dad.

From that point, little by little, the need grew even greater, and the caregiver in me became more protective over Mom and Dad. I readily jumped in and took care of things before being asked, attempting to keep them from getting hurt. I had to constantly remind myself to not overstep my dad, who was fiercely independent and hard-working. I had to learn how to balance helping them with also allowing him to still do what he could. Sometimes that was hard to call.

During my three years or so that I took care of my parents, my boys were outgrowing their need for me. I hardly noticed. I was focused on keeping Mom and Dad going. I was on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. When I did go somewhere for a few days, I worried the whole time and stayed close to my phone, always panicking just a little when I saw I had missed calls from them. I always felt like I was waiting on the other shoe to drop.

Before I realized it, I became immersed in tending to my parents, just as my boys were pulling away into the abyss. It was relatively seamless. I was still shopping for someone, still cooking for someone, still running someone to doctor and dentist appointments, still worrying when they got sick and still trying to keep them from getting sick to start with, reminding them to wash hands after visiting the doctor and still making sure they had a jacket before we went out into the cold. I was still comparing labels on groceries, trying to choose healthier options for them. I was whatever they needed that day: gardener, nurse, secretary, handyman, manicurist, hairstylist, chauffeur, housekeeper, cook, concierge, friend, and caregiver. Basically, a mom.

The difference in letting my parents go, however, is that there is a great reward in letting your kids go. Watching my parents lose their independence was heartbreaking. As time went, they needed more and more from me, and I was happy to help any way I could. But there would be no moment like my kids had- the moment you let go and know you did your best. The moment you swell with pride as you see them succeed.

Last fall, when my brother unexpectedly died, I got the call from Mom as I was pulling into their driveway. She had just gotten the horrible news that her firstborn son had died, and she as was screaming for me to get there as soon as I could. I could hear her cry from the garage as I ran inside. She was slumped over crying in her recliner, and Dad was lying across the bed sobbing.

In just two weeks from that day, Mom would go into ICU herself. She would soon find out that she was dying. I sat by my dad's side as he grieved his heart out. There was nothing I could do, not one thing could I offer that would help fix any of it. I watched Dad's little frail, cancer-ridden body shake as he stood over Mom and cried. I watched him lose his desire to eat. I watched him give up his desire to live himself as she slipped away. I heard him pray out loud each night, struggling to understand his words because the crying overshadowed his ability to speak. I watched him wither down to nothing but skin over bone, literally, as the cancer ate him away. I watched him lose his dignity as others had to take care of his most basic needs. I watched his face as he looked hurt and somewhat surprised when he asked me if he was dying and I gave him an honest answer. I listened as he told me what to do with his belongings when he died. I went alone to plan his funeral a couple of weeks before he passed. I picked out a casket and decided on services. I took him, so sick he had to be helped into a wheelchair, to get all his important papers out of his safe deposit box so I could take care of all his business. I listened as he told told the girls at the bank how much he appreciated them and that he probably wouldn't see them again. I laid down beside him each night and listened as he talked about Heaven and wondered what it would be like. I brought him tissues as he cried about leaving us. I promised him I would be right there until the end, holding his hand when he took his last breath, just like I had done for Mom two months earlier. The Saturday we had Dad's funeral, it rained too hard to have the burial. I watched alone from my car that Monday morning as they lowered him into his final resting place beside Mom.

The weekend after Dad died, we started going through the house to get it ready to sell. I dove into work mode as a means of survival. I was already exhausted, but I knew if I stopped long enough to give into the exhaustion I might not get the energy to do it later. I worked nearly every day for weeks, sorting and readying things for an estate sale. I remember feeling as if my parents' whole lives were sitting in boxes in their garage. The last thing I moved were Dad's shoes. They were still sitting beside where his bed had once been..right where I put them the last night I took them off his feet.

I've spent the months since all that attempting to adjust to my new life. I've retreated. I've avoided doing things. I've kept mostly to myself. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed. For me, being away from society is healing. I'm trying to spend any time I can with my youngest son before he gets his driver's license this December. I'm trying to focus more on Dave and our life together. I've caught up on several things I had started before all that unravelled and halted my progress. I've created. I've written. I've built things and I've torn down things. I've had time to think, and I've had time to pray. I've even spent a few days here and there relaxing by the pool. By the time Dad died I was severely anemic, had developed high blood pressure and had gained 15 pounds. I've gone back to the gym and started trying to take care of myself again. I needed that for both physical and emotional healing. I have served everyone else for most of my life, and I'm trying to find a healthy balance while taking care of me for the first time ever.

Soon, I'll be ready to serve again, but for now, I'm tired. I'm traumatized. I still have little snippets of all those images unexpectedly flash through my mind. I still randomly hear my mom's cries and see my dad's sadness. I know with time those pictures will fade, but for now, they are fresh. PTSD is real.

I am getting control over my life again. I'm finding restoration in my solitude as my mind and body recover from the stress I've endured. It's been hard to overcome suffering so much sadness in such a short time, but God is reminding me every day that He has Mom, Dad, and my brother, and that I will see them again when my time here is over. That is what gets me through each day.

I am still a servant, I'm just tucked away on a shelf for a bit. Soon, I'll be called to task again, and when I am, I'll be just as ready as I've always been to answer the call. But tonight, I am thankful for rest.

Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Coming Back to Life: Continuing Dad’s Legacy

I miss my dad. Every day, multiple times per day, I have an overwhelming feeling of loss come over me. For just a minute it takes my breath. I still have visuals of watching how he suffered the last few weeks of his life. I still hear him crying over Mom and my brother Kevin’s deaths. I'm just recently starting to sleep again without listening for him to holler for me from his room. I wouldn’t bring him back to this crazy place in that little tattered body if I could, because I know without a doubt where he is-at the feet of Jesus Himself. Still, there’s a void that’s left in my heart for as long as I'm here.

When Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in October, 2017, I knew my time left with him was short. I had already spent 10 months taking him to doctor appointments, scans, blood work and tests, all in an attempt to explain his unusual symptoms. During those months, we made it a habit to go to Golden Corral, Cracker Barrel, Shoney’s breakfast bar or IHOP. By the time he was diagnosed, he was hardly eating anything at all. He lost over 70 pounds. Going to these places was about the only time he ate well.

For the most part, I have always been, like my dad, naturally thin. With the exception of having to lose pregnancy weight, I have never had to diet. Fortunately, most of the foods I like to eat are fairly healthy.  I typically eat like I’m dieting anyway! I don’t like dipped, battered, fried things, I don’t eat butter on anything (except homemade bread!). I only eat grilled chicken and turkey, as far as meats go. I love vegetables and salad, and I only like veggies on salad (no croutons or bacon bits for me), and I barely use a drop or two of dressing...the vinegar-based types. I don’t like the thick, creamy kinds. My big vice, however, is that I chase every bite of food with a swig (which sounds a little better than a gulp) of sweet tea. Anyone who knows me well knows I love sweet tea...to the tune of around a gallon every other day! My other big problem is bread and sweets. Cookies, cakes, pastries, donuts..basically anything that starts with sugar and ends with white flour.

I like to say my sugar and carbs addiction is Dad’s fault. He kept us well stocked with desserts when we were growing up. The last thing he cooked for me was one of his famous baked rice puddings just a few months ago. His mother, my Granny, got me hooked on sweet tea when I was too small to lift the huge glass pickle jar she kept it in. She was also a sweet eater. She would always say after dinner she liked a little sweetenin'! I always looked forward to peeking under her aluminum cake box in the kitchen to see what kind of cake she had made, hoping it was strawberry cake with strawberry icing. My sweet tooth is almost as old as I am!

I knew when I was eating gravy and biscuits at Cracker Barrel one morning and the lunch buffet at Golden Corral the next that it probably was going to catch up to me. I could feel that my clothes were getting tighter and I felt yuckier than I ever had felt before. Still, if I hadn’t gone with Dad to eat, he wouldn’t have eaten either, so I went. We went about twice a week, sometimes more. These breakfast and lunch dates took the place of my daily mile and a half walks and trips to the gym. I was acutely aware, though, that it was a trade I would never regret in the long run. We had many precious conversations, lots of funny observations and comments and really a sort of therapy as we talked about years gone by. I would not trade one single second of that time for all the skinniness in the world!

So, now Dad is gone and I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. I gained about 15 pounds over the last couple of years, and I feel every pound of it! I developed high blood pressure during all the loss of Kevin, Mom and Dad in a 3 month span. I have struggled with my own version of depression: feeling like my best years are over, lacking motivation and energy, wanting to sleep all the time, feeling like I’m old, fearful of cancer, fearful of heart disease and diabetes. I’m not sitting around sad and crying, I just know all those feelings are a direct result of the hurricane I’ve been through in the last few months. I’m fully aware in my head that none of these “lies” are true, and I know without a doubt that God is in control of it all, yet my heart still feels them. There’s no fix for my loss. I have to feel it, no matter how painful it may be, and this is how I’m feeling it, and the extra weight is adding physical stress to my emotional anguish. 

About 2 months before Dad died, he said, 

"Don't give up on me! I'm coming back!" He gave it everything he had. He was so strong, even in such sickness and despair.

So last week I got to thinking about Dad and how terribly sick he became near the end. He was beyond pitiful. Yet still, he wanted so badly to live. He wanted to “come back”, as he put it. He tried so, so hard, too. He never gave up. Just two weeks before his death he said he was going to start walking with me in the springtime. He wanted to go back home to Appalachia again. He wanted to go to Golden Corral again! He just wanted to be able to eat again, and to feel like laughing again. He just wanted so desperately to live.

I kept hearing the echoes of Dad saying, “I can’t quit. I don’t know how to not fight. I have to keep going or I’ll lose my abilities.” I know he was right. I believe he lived longer because of his strong will and desire to overcome. So, my battle (fortunately) isn’t one with cancer, it’s one with pulling it back in the road and taking care of myself again. It’s about changing the monologue in my head. It’s about being productive again and pushing myself to get up and go walk, even if I would rather sleep in. It’s about choosing healthy things to eat instead of what’s convenient or what I like the best, and drinking a sweet tea here and there instead of half a gallon a day. It’s about trusting God to help me when I feel weak. It’s about choices, and making the right ones. It's about honoring God, and caring about how I treat my body and the health He has blessed me with. It’s also about honoring my dad, and living my best life, the one he would be living if he were only my age again and in as good of health as I am fortunate enough to be in. It’s about living while I’m alive.

I’m doing it, Dad. I can’t quit. I have to fight to be healthy and fit. I have to keep going so I don’t lose my ability to live well. I’m your girl, and I will never forget the example you set to keep on keeping on, no matter what life throws at you. I hope my kids will one day look at me and say, “She never, ever gave up.” And I hope one day they’ll want to take me to Golden Corral. 😋

 We built this little box for Dad to fill in an empty space after he fell between his toilet and bathtub several times. I wanted him to see this verse every time he lifted the lid. I hope he remembered it every time he felt discouraged.

This is the House

I haven't been able to write for a while,  partly just due to not having the time, and partly due to not being able to find the words to describe what we have been through in just 3 months and 12 days.

I knew in my heart when I fell and broke my wrist on October 21 that something big was around the corner. As I sat on the ground surveying my newly accordion-shaped wrist, I had a flash image of Dad taking a dramatic turn for the worse cross my mind. I just knew I needed to be off work for a reason, and I feared because of Dad's pancreatic cancer that it was him who would need me.

Just 18 days later, my big brother, Kevin, suffered a fatal massive heart attack. Two weeks to the day after that, Mom went into the hospital. Five days after Mom was admitted, Dad went in too. Mom died less than 3 weeks later, and Dad died 2 months and 2 days after her. As I type these words, we are in the process of dismantling their household. 

Today I stood in the sunroom of Mom and Dad's home and took in the echoing silence. This is the house that Kevin and I found together. The house that we had no choice but to search for when my mom became unable to climb the steps of their former home. The house my dad cried over having to move into because it wasn't something he chose, it was something that had to be for their safety.

This is the house that brought our family together. The house we all spent days cleaning, working on and moving Mom and Dad into. The house we were so excited about them seeing the first time! The house where we had Christmases, anniversaries, birthdays and Easters. The house that we all felt at home in. 

This is the house where Dad caught the cornbread pan on fire. The house that always had Top Gun radio blasting from Mom's Bose Acoustic Wave in her bedroom. The house that always had Fox News blaring in the sunroom as Dad sat on his side of the red love seat. This is the house that smelled like freshly washed towels tumbling in the dryer.

This is the house where Mom sat in her bedroom in her recliner watching The Price is Right, dreaming of how she would bid if she could only go be a contestant. This is the house where she discovered the Crumb Buster, her little mini-vac that she used on the kitchen table.

This is the house that was always set at 78°, year around. This is the house that I brought groceries into each week as my dad looked up from his chair and waved at me as I walked in. This is the house that I got poison ivy at every single year as I pulled up weeds. This is the house that was covered in Star Shower lights each Christmas.

This is the house that Dad strutted around in his crazy poker card shirt one Christmas Eve. The house that Mom last played the piano in. The house where Kevin made macaroni and cheese pans that were the size of the stove top! This is the house where Kevin stopped me in my tracks one day to tell me he loved me.

This is the house we got called to too many times to count because Mom or Dad fell and needed help getting up. The house where Dad lost his ability to be independent and to take care of Mom. The house they both last drove from. This is the house where Dad last watched the Braves play.

This is the house where I had to come do an emergency cleaning on all the windows after Kevin used his "miracle cleaner" that didn't have to be rinsed! This is the house where I planted Dad his own tomato plants and Kevin thought they were weeds and dug them up. This is the house where I watched in horror as Kevin was falling backwards off a 20 foot ladder while hanging their big clock underneath the vaulted ceiling, his eyes locked on mine all the way down.

This is the house where everyone would sneak candy from the candy bowl. This is the house where Dad brought me an ice cream sandwich as I painted the garage one summer. This is the house where we planted rose bushes for Mom to see from the sunroom. 

This is the house where we held Mom and Dad together when Kevin died. This is the house Dad begged to come home to. This is the house where we brought Mom and Dad both home on the same day with hospice care. The house where we had our last Christmas gathering early for them as we knew Mom wouldn't make it until the 25th.

This is the house where my dad sat sobbing from the pits of his soul as my mom slipped away. This is the house that we all came together in to care for Dad as the cancer took him over. The house we spent every day and night for the last 2 months. The house my dad last walked in. The house where we hung up his coat for the very last time.

This is the house where we last said I love you and where we heard it said back. This is the house where they took their last breaths on Earth. The house they left to journey to their eternal home in Heaven. This is the house that stands quiet now, no lively voices filling the air.

This is the house that is waiting on the soul whose life will fill it again with laughter and love. The house we will always hold close to our hearts. The house that will bring both a tear and a smile each time we drive by. The house that will always be part of our family history. Not just a house, but a home it was.

This is the house. This is the house.

Unspeakable Peace:Sheltered in the Arms of God

It may sound really strange to some, but it was the most beautiful death I have ever witnessed.

The last couple of months have just been unbelievable. Someone texted me a couple of weeks ago and said, "How are you?" I replied, "Exhausted, thankful, sad, amazed, scared and at peace." At that point, both my parents were in the hospital, just 2 weeks after my oldest brother passed away unexpectedly.

My brother's death seemed to be "the big event" of my life so far. Kevin was the oldest of us four, and there was no warning that anything was wrong that could take him from us so soon.  Little did I know that just two weeks later to the day, our saddest chapter would begin to unravel even further when my mom was admitted to the hospital, and just six days after that my dad would also end up there.

We thought Mom would be okay after a few days. She was released to go to rehab just one day after my dad moved into a room just around the corner from hers. She was doing well at therapy, and after five days, my dad was well enough to join her at the rehab facility. They even got to share a room! Mom commented that they would pretend they were on vacation in a luxury resort. They were so happy to finally be together again.

That happiness was short-lived. Just the following day, Mom began having some problems. My sister said that all morning, she felt worried about Mom. She worried so much, she took a break at work long enough to call the rehab hospital to check on her. She said she just had a gut-feeling that something wasn't right. She left work and went over, and sure enough, Mom was very sick. She called for an ambulance and they headed to the ER.

Dad called me as they were leaving and was absolutely hysterical. He wanted to go with her to the hospital, and of course as a patient, he wasn't allowed to leave. He had never acted so desperate before. I assured him she would be okay, and I headed out the door to go sit with him until we got word about Mom. Since his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer over a year ago, he seems to be more emotional. Looking back, I believe he sensed how serious it was this time.

When I got to rehab, Dad was a mess. He was crying uncontrollably. He was saying if I didn't take him to be with her, he would walk out and get there himself..and I know him well enough to know he would try it! Mom was admitted a little later that night and I arranged to take Dad out of rehab and to the hospital to see her the next day. 

When we got there, she was pitiful.

Mom had always been anxiety-ridden. She didn't handle stressful situations very well at all. They had her on a breathing machine that covered her face, and it was evident that she was in a full-blown panic attack. It was so hard seeing her that way. We all knew that she felt like she was smothering because she couldn't stand something over her face. It was awful.

That night, the doctor told my sister and me to come in the next morning prepared to make some difficult decisions. Mom wasn't responding to treatment. She was in multiple organ failure. The next 24 hours would be critical.

I really dreaded even getting up the next morning. We were going to have to decide whether to keep up trying to save her or to let her slip peacefully, without all the needle pokes and machines constantly beeping. I drug myself out of bed, picked up my dad and we headed to the hospital.

When I walked in the room, I was stunned. Mom was sitting up, no mask on her face, smiling and talking. "Hey, honey!", she said, as I walked into the room. You could have knocked me over with a feather! She looked completely healed!

Most of the family showed up that day since word had gotten around of how sick she was. We had to close the door of the ICU unit for fear we would be thrown out because of the laughter and conversation that went on all day! We were all so happy to see her feeling so much better, and Dad was so relieved to see some improvement.

We kept asking Mom if we were wearing her out, but she kept saying no and that she loved having all of us there. She asked me to come over so she could tell me what happened to her the night before, the night she was in such bad shape that the doctors had all but given up. Mom began telling of a supernatural experience, one that she said most wouldn't believe.

My brother, Mark, had stepped out of the room, and soon after, she heard the curtain of the ICU unit open. She assumed it was him returning. It wasn't. She described it to me like this: "Do you see that door over there (pointing)? That's where He came in. I heard the curtain pull back, and I looked up and there He was. Jesus! He walked straight over here (as she points a line over the path he took) and He laid His hand on my shoulder. He looked me straight in the eyes, and He said, 'You're going to be ok.'  Now I don't know if He meant I'm going to get better here, or if He is going to take me home with Him, but He told me that so I believe Him! Not only did I hear Him and see Him, but I felt Him. His power ran through my whole body. I felt the power of God in a way I have never experienced before!"

Just two days later, the doctors said her stats were starting to decline again. Every day, things looked a little more bleak than the day before. By day four, they had decided that there was nothing more that they could do. My mom and dad both decided they would come home and be in the care of hospice so she could pass into eternity from home.

The day they came home, both of them felt a great sense of relief. They were finally together again! Mom had not had any pain, and her usual state of anxiety in these type situations was noticeably absent. She smiled every time she opened her eyes. She told us all repeatedly how much she loved us. She was clear and aware, knowing who everyone was and even asking by name for those she knew hadn't been to see her. She kept asking when our family Christmas would be..we were planning it a week early so she could be here with us. She held on for that. She held on for Dad. She held on for us.

Mom was experiencing total peace. She never shed a tear, there was never a word spoken by her about her inevitable death being scary, which was totally unlike her. She kept saying, "Whether I stay or whether I go, I'm sheltered in the arms of God." She told us not to cry for her. She told us she would see us there. She was graceful. She was calm. Some of her last words, while she was still able to talk, were, "Total peace. I'm at total peace."

The day after our Christmas gathering, Mom became more and more still. She slept deeper as the day went on, but could still open her eyes and try to respond when we talked to her. By the time Dad went to bed around midnight, she had fallen into a deep sleep. Dad was afraid to go to sleep, so we prayed before I left the room. I prayed that God would take her if she couldn't get better, and I asked Him for mercy in her death that she wouldn't suffer by smothering or hurting. I asked specifically that He would just let her stop breathing when He was ready to take her, and to let her take her last breath here on earth and her next breath in Heaven.

An hour and twenty-five minutes later, I was standing by her side, holding her hand, when she just stopped breathing. It was that simple. There was no gasp, no struggle, no anxiety, no fear. She took her last breath here and the next in Heaven.

Jesus promised her He would take care of her. He touched her body, spirit and and soul in the hospital that day. His peace and comfort have enveloped us all in a way that can only be explained by a touch from God. We didn't want to let Mom go, but we wanted her to be at peace.

I believe she is. I believe she is okay because my Jesus came to comfort her and told her she would be. He told her she would be okay, and I believe she is even better than okay. I believe that today she is sheltered in the arms of God. There is no greater peace to be had.

Philippians 4:7(NIV)

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Broken Sis with a Broken Wrist

My family, with my big brother Kevin in the middle.

It's been a hard week. Actually, it's been a hard several weeks, but this past week takes the cake.

As I type this with one hand due to my broken right wrist, I am looking down at the cards and notes that have been sent to us this week. I am in awe of how loved we are and we didn't even know it. I am so thankful for friends and family who gathered around us in a time of need to hold us together. I'm thankful for friends who fed us and cleaned for us, and for money and gift cards for food and groceries that were collected to help replace my lost income. Each day I was met with kind and compassionate words through cards, texts, visits and phone calls. My goodness, how people have loved on us!

This awful saga began a few weeks ago just after a relaxing cabin trip with friends during fall break. We were cleaning up around the yard when I decided it would be a good idea to clean out the unused playhouse in our back yard. I carefully stepped inside the rope climbing ladder to reach further into the playhouse, gathered my arms full of things and then stepped back, one foot successfully and the other...well, not. As I was going down in what seemed like a slo-mo movie, I was actually thinking, "Don't put your hands down!", but apparently God thought it would be a great idea to wire us up to do just exactly that when we fall. So, at the very last minute, down went my right hand. "Crunnnccchhh!" I heard it. I felt it. I knew without a doubt that it was not only broken, but messed up badly. I sat there dreading to look, but I finally got my nerve up. It looked sort of like an accordion.

I actually had a question to God run through my mind right then: "Does this mean I am going to be needed by Mom and Dad?" I feared the worst was approaching. Dad had not been doing well for several weeks. Maybe I needed to be out of commission to be available to them? I had no idea how much they were going to need me.

A few days after my injury, I had surgery to repair my wrist. My oldest brother, Kevin, who lived about 3 hours away, called me. He said he was worried about me and wanted to help. He was coming the next weekend to take care of Mom and Dad's needs since I couldn't. He said while he was here that he wanted to cook us dinner and drop it by. He made us an enormous pan of baked spaghetti (one side without meat just for me!), complete with bread, salad and chocolate marble cheesecake for dessert. He hung around a few minutes when he came with the food and we talked. He talked about the lot he was grading down for the house he was building. He talked about his grandkids and what amazing things they say and do. He talked about Mom and Dad and funny things they said that day while he was there. It was just a normal visit, with normal conversation and a normal goodbye hug when he left. I watched him back his new truck down my driveway, and I cringed as I heard the hitch on the back scrape the pavement as he backed onto the road. I waved as he drove away, not knowing because of the darkness if he saw me or not. I saw the orange lights on the running boards of the truck. I admired how clean and shiny his trucks always are. That was the last time I saw him. As I type those words, I'm still in disbelief that I will never see my brother on this earth again.

The week after I saw him last, he would leave this world for eternity. Looking back, we can all see warning signs that he was pushing too hard..working incessantly and not getting enough rest, not taking care of his health like he should, pushing his body to it's limit. But, this is Kevin we are talking about. He has done that his entire life! What he did on the days leading up to his death was nothing different from any other day in his world. But on that day, November 8, 2018, his heart had reached it's breaking point. It simply stopped beating. And just like that, this man, this invincible, unstoppable man, was gone.

I had lost my big brother, and that is not something you can ever prepare to do. My parents, though, had lost a son. Their first son, the one they had when they were just newlywed teens living in Germany while my dad served in the Army. Their baby boy.

My dad had been declining for a couple of weeks before this tragedy struck our family. He was having such extreme back pain, possibly related to his pancreatic cancer, that he ended up in the emergency room and urgent care a couple of times in the weeks prior to Kevin's passing. He had been spending more and more time lying in bed, which is the only relief he could get from hurting.

My phone had rung at 7:00 am that Thursday morning. My sister said Kevin's wife, Valerie, heard him fall and ran to check on him. She quickly realized how serious the situation was, so she called for help and began CPR. Just a few minutes after we hung up, my sister called again. This time, all I heard was Marla screaming my name. I knew he was gone. My knees went weak. I froze for a while, trying to wrap my head around what I had just been told. My next thought was that I need to get to Mom and Dad.

They had already been told when I got there. Dad was lying on the bed crying, and mom was sitting in her recliner crying the "mom who has lost her child" cry. The rest of that day seems like one big blurry picture. All I really remember afterwards was that Dad was not doing well. His blood sugar reached over 600 and wouldn't respond to insulin. His blood pressure was out the roof. About 11:00 p.m., we headed to the ER.

After several doses of insulin and some monitoring, they let us leave about 5:30 a.m. I took Dad home and tucked him in bed. He was crying himself to sleep as I slipped out the door. I drove home and looked at the clock, realizing I had only an hour and a half until my post-op doctor's appointment to get my stitches out and a new cast on. I laid down wearing the clothes I had on, got up about 30 minutes later and headed out the door to my appointment.

The nurse cut off my splint and I saw my arm for the first time. Right then and there, the events of the past 24 hours spilled out of my heart. I lost it. I mean, I completely lost it. I think I scared the poor nurse to death. She thought I was afraid to have the stitches removed! She had no idea what the past day had been for me. The stitches were just the final straw that broke the camel's back.

For the next several days, my dad could hardly sit up. He wasn't able to stand without help. He wasn't able to walk, even on his walker, without help. He wouldn't eat. He laid in the bed in the only position he could that he didn't hurt. Mom cried on and off all day. Everywhere she looked there was a reminder of Kevin: the ceramic apple cookie jar on the top of the cabinet. The Donald Trump doll in the sunroom. The red can opener on the kitchen counter. The violet he carried in to her the last time he came. His mark is all over that house. He spent the last several years making sure they knew how much he loved them. 

I will quote our former pastor by saying, "Everybody's hurting." You never know what someone is going through. Life has a way of kicking you in the gut at times. Sometimes we just have to stand on up and keep going, even though our legs are collapsing underneath us, and sometimes we need to lie down in the middle of Stone Drive during lunchtime traffic because we can't take another step, and just pray we don't get run over.

Be kind. Be compassionate. Love on your neighbors, hold up your friends when they are weak. Feed them when they are hungry, and cry with them when they are sad.

Love your family and cherish every moment you spend together. Don't just live every day like it's your last..live it like it could be theirs. Life is short. Life is fleeting. Life is precious, every single one.

1 Peter 4:10(NIV)

Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.

Galatians 6:2(NIV)
Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

1 Peter 3:8(NIV)

Suffering for Doing Good

Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.