Two times in my life, I have heard words that I will never forget, words that have changed my life forever. The first was in 2013 when my doctor told me, “There’s no heartbeat.” We had not even chosen a name for our baby yet, but all our hopes and plans were tied up in him. Then he was gone, so quietly, and without any pain. He just slipped away. I grieved for all he would never do, and all I would never get to do for him. My heart yearned to soothe him when he cried. I wanted to brush the dirt off his knee when he fell down. I wanted to smell his hair while he slept. He is the only son God has granted me, and I don’t know what color his eyes are. We named him Noah. We chose the name because we knew his life had value and meaning. And even though no one wanted it to happen, he had to go on a big journey that we couldn’t begin to understand. Noah in the Bible left behind a flooded world, and my Noah left behind a flood of tears. The second set of words was, “She doesn’t have much time left.” This was spoken by a hospice nurse about my mother, who had been battling stage IV breast cancer for a year. I had so many things I still wanted to do with my mother. We were going to see the Grand Canyon together. We were going to write a book together. We had so many goals and plans we wanted to accomplish. Grieving someone whom you have known your whole life is different from grieving someone you were desperate to know; even though I had all of these dreams ahead, I found myself grieving the moments that had passed that I wanted to experience again. I wanted her to make her lasagna, listen to me share something I was excited about, or laugh at a favorite movie together. With Noah I grieved all I wanted to know, with my mama I grieved all that I knew I would miss.
My miscarriage was at 11 weeks. My care provider at the time did not choose to inform me of the options that I had. She told me that if I didn’t get surgery to remove my son, I would bleed to death. I was young, and I didn’t know any other options, so I trusted her. She scheduled the surgery for 3 days later. I will never forget the numbness. My body was so numb it hurt. We had announced our pregnancy a few weeks before we found out we lost the baby, so we also announced his death. Because of that, we had people all around the world praying for us. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I was lying on the bed, waiting to be taken back to surgery. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my thoughts. I felt a hand under my arm, so I looked down, thinking it was my husband. But he wasn’t touching me; no one was. Then I realized it wasn’t just my arm that I felt a hand touching me. It was all around my body. It felt as though I was lying on a bed of uplifting hands instead of the gurney I actually was lying on.
I knew instantly that it was Elohim physically holding me up. And when I leaned into that feeling, I also felt the swelling ocean of grief below me. I didn’t hear the Holy Spirit speak words at that moment, but His touch was what I really needed anyway. There are no words to comfort a mother who lost her child.
John 14:16
Some translations have Jesus call the Holy Spirit an advocate, but most say a helper because that is closer to the Greek word used. The first time I read this definition, I remembered that feeling of those hands on me. Holy Spirit came to my side, and He ministered to me. And without that, I don’t know what I would have done.
Sunday, August 27, 2023, my mother hadn’t eaten in 5 days, hadn’t had water in 3 days, and hadn’t spoken since the previous morning. I had been by her side, reading scripture, singing her songs, and caring for all the needs I could. I was at her side when I looked out her window and saw it was raining. The sight brought tears to my eyes; it hadn’t rained in 42 days that summer and the ground yearned for a drink. My mom had been a missionary in desert lands in Africa for 23 years, and I had lost count of how many times she prayed for rain.
I knew if she had been able she would have gone onto the porch to soak it in, so I went for her. I took her Bible with me and read Hosea 6. I soaked in the words as the rain gently fell from heaven. It was the perfect kind of rain, the kind that moistens the ground, but you can stand in it without getting very wet. I walked into the rain and let it land on my face and outstretched hands. I felt the Holy Spirit come to take my mother home. My body felt so light like I could float away with her. I knew my mama was going home. I turned to go back into the house, and my sister-in-law was there opening the door to tell me, “Mom’s breathing is getting slower!”
I walked to my mama’s side and held her hand. Her eyes were open for the first time since the previous morning, and I got the honor of telling her, “It’s ok, mama, you can go home; we are ok; you have loved us all so well; we will all be ok.”
My father, my husband, my brother, his wife, and my mother’s sister (who raised my mom after her parents died) all surrounded her. All of her grandchildren played in the next room. We could hear them laughing and playing as she passed. The laughter of her grandchildren was my mother’s favorite sound.
Her long and painful battle with cancer ended. A few moments later, I looked out the window, and the rain had stopped. Years before that day, my mama had been given a Turkana name by the people she had ministered to: that name is “Akiru,” and in Turkana, it means “rain that refreshes the earth.” My mama refreshed the earth for her 66 years.
The Holy Spirit came to carry my mama home, to tell the world she was a good and faithful servant, and to tell me my work wasn’t done yet; in fact, it was only beginning. Since that moment, I have had no fear about my calling.
