Saying Goodbye: A Mother’s Final Gift

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saying Goodbye: A Mother’s Final Gift

There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after. Early May of 2001 became one of those moments for our family—quietly, suddenly, and with the kind of heartbreak that forces you to cling to faith like a lifeline.

Mom had always seemed indestructible to me. Not in a loud or showy way, but in that steady, farm-wife, faith-rooted way that made you believe she could carry the world on her shoulders and still have energy left to bake a pie. She had held our family together through scraped knees, teenage mischief, sick livestock, bad harvests, and all the curveballs that come with raising three spirited boys—and one nurturing daughter who softened the rest of us.

Passionate Cheerleader

But life has a way of reminding us that strength is borrowed, not owned.

It was just a week before Mother’s Day when the phone rang with news that didn’t feel real: Mom had suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. No warning. No chance to prepare our hearts. One moment she was the same woman who read her Bible every morning and loved her sons and daughter fiercely…the next she was in a hospital room, unconscious, already halfway to heaven.

When we arrived at the hospital, the air felt heavy in a way I’d never experienced—like time itself was holding its breath. Our whole family gathered around her bed. Dad. Tammy. Todd. Trent. Beth and I. We were all there, stunned, aching, trying to wrap our minds around the fact that the center of our family—the woman who prayed us through childhood, scolded us with a smile that meant she’d forgive us before the punishment was over, and lived every day with purpose—lay silent.

And yet, there was a strange peace in that room.

Not the peace of acceptance—none of us were ready for that—but the peace of presence. We were together. We were holding onto one another. And deep down, we knew God was holding onto her.

Machines hummed softly. Monitors blinked. Nurses moved gently, reverently. But eventually the time came when the doctors told us what our hearts already sensed: Mom was leaving us. The damage was too great. Life support was the only thing keeping her here.

The decision that followed was the kind no family wants to make, yet every family who loves deeply understands: releasing someone you adore into the arms of the Savior they trusted.

We circled her bed—hands intertwined, voices hushed, hearts breaking—and we prayed. We cried. We whispered our goodbyes and our thank-yous. And in that quiet holy moment, life support was removed.

Mom passed from this life to the next with her family surrounding her, just as she deserved—held, honored, and deeply loved. One breath she was with us… and the next she was with the Lord she had faithfully followed all her life. I imagine Jesus greeting her the way Dad later would—arms open wide, pulling her into one of those “treatments” and powerful hugs Dad was so famous for.

Losing her broke something inside each of us. But it also revealed how deeply she had shaped us.

Tammy, steady and nurturing, became the emotional backbone of the siblings, just as Mom had been for us.

Todd and Trent held their grief with a quiet strength that reminded me of Dad’s gentleness.

And I found myself remembering every morning I’d seen her at the kitchen table, Bible open, head bowed, seeking strength from the One she leaned on daily.

Her death showed me that her real legacy wasn’t in the meals she cooked, or the clothes she washed, or her decorative touch on every room of the farmhouse. Her legacy was in the way she loved—with humility, devotion, humor, stubbornness, grace, and a fierce commitment to her family.

A week later, while the rest of the world celebrated Mother’s Day with flowers and cards, we stood at her funeral giving thanks for a mother whose story was written not in grand gestures, but in faith lived quietly and consistently over a lifetime. It was a different kind of Mother’s Day—one filled with tears, yes, but also with gratitude for the woman who shaped us.

And in the years since, I’ve come to see that her final moments—surrounded by her husband and children—were a last gift to us. A reminder that family is a sacred circle, that love endures beyond breath, and that heaven is not a far-off idea but a promise kept.

Mom lived faithfully.

She loved deeply.

She served humbly.

And in her final moments, she showed us—once again—how to trust God with everything.