House on the Rock

We decided to stick together that night. It felt right to drive to Crawfordsville, to our parents’ house, the 10-acre lot with oak trees and a trampoline that was marked by a multitude of beautiful childhood memories. We were an incredibly close family who, frankly, had lived a relatively easy life. Sinful, certainly. We had our struggles for sure. But we hadn’t dealt with much illness or strife. The Lord had been gracious to us. 

Before anything else, it was important to tell our grandparents. We wanted to do it in person; we needed to do it together. The drive was quiet, heavy-hearted, slow. We pulled into the driveway of my mom’s parents and prepared to rock their world in the same way Mom and Dad had just rocked ours. My Dad’s mom met us there. 

That conversation was brutal. My mom’s mom, Nana, and I gripped each other’s hands, willing this to be a nightmare we would wake up from. We had received word that our mother had cancer, but they received that word about their daughter. To this day, I think that might be worse. 

But I’ll never forget her response as she shakily held my hand that night. It was faith-filled, determined, grounding us in a beautiful reality that would mark the dark valleys to come:

“Well, this life is but a blip.”

There was something so peace-bringing in those words. She wasn’t being flippant or heartless — this was her firstborn daughter, after all. But she was right: this life on earth is so short. It is nothing but the tiniest blip, and we have an entire eternity awaiting us after death. It is impossible for our finite minds to fully grasp, and it is a concept we don’t talk about often. It’s daunting to even try. But this much is true – we live a few decades on this Earth – some more, some less, and then we’re gone. No day here is guaranteed.

In light of that encouragement, we prayed and parted ways. Tomorrow, we said, we’d all return to the hospital. We’d be by her side soon enough. 

Shockingly, that next morning was wonderful. Heavy, for sure. But so peaceful. I woke up to breakfast made by Dad, went on a walk by myself, and enjoyed some quiet time in prayer. I sat outside on the porch and read Leviticus — not my first choice in times of trouble, but it’s where my Bible plan had me, so it’s where I stayed. I even took a dreamy spa shower with all the fun creams and scrubs my sister keeps in her tub.

When I got out of the shower, I heard a voice I didn’t recognize. A man, his tone serious, talking quickly on speakerphone. I stepped into the living room, wrapped in a now-soaking towel. The scene that unfolded was quite grim: Christen had her head in her hands, sobbing. Cam was slumped on the ground. Dad was shaking as he listened to the words of the mystery man. Joe immediately came and wrapped me a pity-filled hug. 

I was late to the conversation, but I heard enough: “Tumors on her brain.” “Incurable.” “Terminal.” “Doesn’t look good.”

My body trembled with rage. I wanted to scream at the man. Scream that he didn’t know my mom, what a fighter she was, what our God could do. But of course, he had seen the scans. There were many things he knew. 

It was an interesting array of emotions following that call. Dad burst into tears for fifteen seconds, only to pop up, shake off his sobs, and then rush to comfort us. Cam ran outside, full speed — a 6’4 brick of a human nearly shattering the rickety back door. He wailed once outside. Christen crumbled. All I could feel was rage. I fumed, pacing furiously up and down the stairs, still dripping from the shower, still clutching my towel. I screamed, “WHERE ARE MY SHORTS?!” I couldn’t find them, and it seemed life was spiraling so far, so fast out of control that I couldn’t get hold of anything. 

We rushed to the hospital. We cried the whole way there. We refused to leave mom’s side for that entire afternoon. Dad went into secretary mode, making phone calls to employers, family, friends. His quiet strength calmed us, while mom’s radiant peace soothed our souls. We could feel the Lord sustaining us with His promise of providence. 

It was no coincidence that at church the next day, the first song we sang was “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” I have never cried so hard during worship. We had bid Mom farewell on a joy-filled note after a lovely day together. I can’t reiterate enough how incredibly strong she was. During our breakdowns, we could look to her, knowing that she was looking to God, and that her eternity was secure. I’ll never forget the most powerful words she spoke to us as we left: 

“If I live, I live, and if I die, I live.” What hope we all can have because of Jesus. This life is nothing but a blip.