By Wendy A. Jones
The last post I wrote for this blog was about my mom's cancer diagnosis. The one before that was about time and how I was going to try and find "joy in the journey," not letting time pressures rob me of enjoying the moment I'm currently in.
Those two things have been in my thoughts, especially as Easter has approached. I'm still staying with my parents, having sent my children off to live with their dad a week and a half ago. I have gone to appointments with my parents and listened to one doctor use the phrase "ultimate demise" in a sentence, and the other one candidly remark that "barring any accidents" this brain tumor Mom has will most likely cause her death.
Death is something we all think about at some point, especially in the context of Easter. But as glorious and miraculous as the resurrection is, I still don't want to think about it in regards to my mother.
Selfishly, I focus more on what her death will mean to all us schlumps she leaves behind instead of what it might mean to her. I can't stop asking myself the question, "If she dies, who will take care of me?"
Then the other night I read D&C 42:45-46, 48.
"Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die, and more especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection.
"And it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them;"
"And again, it shall come to pass that he that hath faith in me to be healed, and is not appointed unto death, shall be healed."
Reading about healing and faith comforted me. I know God can heal my mom. And maybe He will, and I will continue to pray for that outcome. But no amount of faith can save her if she is "appointed unto death." I have to be all right with that. I have to realize that might be what she needs--that might be what we all need. None of us want it. But I have to prepare myself for that eventuality.
Most of all, I realized I shouldn't waste time. I hug her, I kiss her, I tell her I love her, I feel her. I store up as much as I possibly can because I understand something I've always known: she is going to die, and I am going to have to live without her. It's just happening a lot sooner than I thought.
So now when I sing the words, "Where thy victory, O grave?" at church today, they will be more personal than ever before. Christ has won the victory. I am so grateful for that.