My Mother

Ten years ago, May 12, Mother's Day.

It was 7:30 a.m. when the phone rang. The dull ache that surged in my heart came from the knowledge that this was The Call.

"Well, Shosa," my oldest brother used his pet name for me, "Our momma has gone to be with Jesus this morning."

It was not a surprise. I had spent the last two weeks at her side, even sleeping some nights in the same bed. The hospice nurse had very accurately indicated the estimated time of her impending death based on years of observing the chronological breakdown of the body's ability to function.

My mother was ready. Her last lucid words were, "Give it all to Jesus" as she raised her hands upward as if to toss her burdens on heaven's doorstep.

She had given her all for her eight children, her husband and her gracious Saviour. What she couldn't give, she gave to Jesus. She gave me more than she would ever know.

"If you knew what God knows about death," wrote George MacDonald,
"you would clap your listless hands."