House on the Rock

I’m not ready to write about this one yet. Not really, anyway. Recapping this journey from August 8 to November 2 has felt almost like a self-enforced mandate — I don’t want to let myself forget a single thing. But in the same way, the writing has brough space to grieve. Time for tears to tumble as I type. Slowness and stillness as I let myself sit in those valley-marked memories, and gratitude as I remember God’s grace through it all.

It’s not easy to hit “publish” and know I’ll be dropping these painful memories in the inbox of my grandparents, my siblings, my mom’s closest friends. But my prayer is that we’d memorize the mini-mercies. To trace the hand of God through every bout of bad news. To remember the smile that sustained Mom’s entire journey, and to know that she loved us to the end. To remind each other that we’ll see her again.

Dad slid the door open around 8 AM on that Thursday. I sat up quickly — I just knew. 

“I think she’s gone,” he whispered. We hugged, shaking with sobs, then stepped out by her side for the final time. He called Jake Lowe, who came quickly with his wife, Taneille. They slipped in quietly, both having experience in the medical field and being all-too-acquainted with death. Taneille held a cold stethoscope to the chest of my beautiful mother and whispered, her voice shaking, “She’s with Jesus.”

The finality of that moment sucked the air from my lungs. I’m sure there will be many reflections on that blue-skied November day for years to come, but this became the most pervasive thought in my mind: 

When Mom was first diagnosed with cancer, she would often say that she felt like the woman in Scripture who was clinging to Jesus’ cloak. I can only imagine what that cloak-clinging looks like now: wrapped in the precious arms of her Savior. Grasping His garment as He whispers, “well done.” Healed, whole, forever home. 

And then someone found this painting on Amazon. It took my breath away when I saw it: 

It’s called First Day in Heaven, and I cannot believe how much it looks like my mom. A mini-mercy. A painted representation of that grace-given reflection. Head full of hair, the long-awaited embrace of the Savior who stretched out His arms on the cross to pay the price for her sins. The exclamation mark to a promise of redemption that transcends all the pages of Scripture. I’ll never get tired of looking at it. 

In the English 9 classroom, when we’re teaching our students to analyze a text, we often start by having them look at art. We try to figure out the big picture first, and then little by little, zoom in on the more intricate details that make up the painting. We then transfer that skill to their reading, asking them to go back and notice the little things — repeated conjunctions or the absence of a comma.

I can’t help but do a similar analysis of this painting. Obviously, in the big picture, I see a woman, joy resounding as she jumps into the arms of a man. That is easy enough to see. But the longer I look, the more I notice the details — the perfect whiteness of the man’s cloak. Without stain or blemish, perfectly pure and sinless. I notice how that whiteness descends into what looks like a waterfall. What a representation of the abundant bursting forth of our Savior’s love. Gushing, almost. This picture is gushing with love. With peace. With perfect joy. With an I finally made it type of excitement.

And finally, I notice the rainbows. Our mama loved rainbows. Her sermon notes are littered with them; she pulled over to take a picture every time we saw one through the car window. One of the last pictures we have of her standing was beneath a brightly-colored arc that appeared over Lake Holiday.

It’s the symbol of a promise, and I’m in awe of the promises that are fulfilled for my mom right now. Her Heavenly inheritance has been acquired. She’s experiencing life to the fullest in the presence of her Savior. The centuries-long preservation of a remnant in Scripture led to a Messiah who died to save her, and she’s home. With Him. Cancer-free. Head full of hair. Grasping His garment as He whispers, “well done.” Healed, whole, and home. Hallelujah.