I should be grading essays, but my mind is elsewhere. 2 years ago, on this day – November 12th, my Momma lay in a bed at the Claire House, a hospice home here in Tulsa. Her breathing was shallow; she was not conscious. She was small in that big twin bed. I held her hand. I watched her. I cried. I prayed. Over the few days we were there, I saw preachers come in and pray over her. Family visited. My husband’s ex-wife, Sonya, who had become my friend and sister through God’s incredible Grace, came and sat with me for three hours, simply holding my hand and not saying a word, just loving and being. Dad and I often sat there in silence with Momma in that kind and compassionate place – at times, sharing stories, laughing, crying, and being quiet. I stayed at her side – spending the night with Momma and Daddy in that place – listening to the noises her body made as it struggled to breathe – praying to God to keep her from awareness of suffering, to let her be at peace. I never left. I saw my husband, Patrick, arrive from working out of town and come straight to my Momma’s bedside, and I watched him open Momma’s Bible and read passages to her about God’s love. I watched her as he read – and I could tell she heard every word – a flutter of eyelids, a slight movement in her hand that Patrick held as he read. She heard him, and she was grateful. I saw that.  Patrick took me home that last day, the 12th so that I could get some rest – I was exhausted, and my husband knew I needed rest for strength – for what was coming, and a few hours later, we picked up my brother, David, from the airport.

We arrived at Claire House, the three of us, that evening and David moved to Momma’s right side, and I stood on her left.  With a look of pure love and understanding, Patrick excused himself from the room; he knew the moment was with us. Dad was nearby, in the chair, so much, I believe, still in denial that his beloved wife was leaving – lost and not knowing what to do. David and I held Momma’s hands, gently stroked her forehead, and told her we loved her. I placed my hand on her heart to feel its slow beat, felt it slowing more. David and I both kissed her. Together, we told her, “It’s okay, Mom,” and we gave her permission to go. And she did. No more than five minutes after our arrival, Momma’s heart stopped. I felt it still under my hand, and I saw the final pulse in her neck. I looked at David for an explanation of why there was a pulse after her heart had stopped. He quietly said it was normal, and we stood there, both crying for our earthly loss but celebrating Momma’s entry into the presence of God. Momma waited for us to all be together before she went to Jesus. Oh, I was so grateful my brother was there to kiss his precious Momma and tell her he loves her! Her baby made it. She waited for him. Those moments are just as real now as they were two years ago.

Memories from those days in Claire House are etched in my heart.  In the few days in hospice care preceding our time in Claire House and during our days at Claire House, I saw well-meaning people come and pray for Momma, praying for an easy transition, for peace for the family, thanking God for her, and other things; I remember someone praying for healing. These times felt, to a degree, comforting in a sense, but also, to me, felt empty … coming in her final days, not having been a part of her final months when they could have actually talked to her, laughed with her, sang with her, shopped with her, told stories with her, cooked with her, cried with her … like I did. And during many of those prayers, I sat with eyes open, watching the praying people, who I choose to believe had good intentions, but it felt hollow to me – somewhat like watching a publican praying while standing on a street corner or in a pulpit for all to see. That kind of prayer has always confused me because it feels contradictory to the Word of God; it’s not private … as it should be, according to Matthew 6:5-15*. Not all were like that, but most. I chided myself, but that feeling has never left me … and it’s okay. You know why it’s okay? In those final days, I saw something else happen for my Momma that I know touched her soul because I saw it happen. Something private. Something humble. Something done spirit to spirit. When my Patrick came, he picked up my Momma’s Bible, sat next to her, held her hand, and quietly read the beloved Word of God, not just to my Momma, but with my Momma. For all my entire life, and I know before I was born, my Momma was in the Word of God every day, and she knew it deep in her soul, and Patrick read to her many of the beloved words she had clung to throughout her life. A good amount of time passed as he quietly read – I have no recollection of how long – but I remember her eyelids twitching in response. I remember her hand slightly squeezing his. I remember my bodily unconscious Momma’s spirit reacting to God’s sovereign Word spoken over her, to her, with her. The room was silent, but for the sound of God’s Word read by my husband and Momma’s body struggling to breathe. Dad listened. I listened. There was communion in that room. The spirit of God was in that space.

For as long as I live, I will not forget those moments.

My husband asked me not long ago why I love him. My eyes welled up with tears as I pictured him sitting at my mother’s bedside, holding her hand, and reading God’s Word with her.  How could I love any other man as I do you? This husband that God gave me is beautiful. He loves God the Father, Christ the Son, and the Holy Spirit with a raw, unorthodox passion I’ve not encountered in another person before … and my Momma’s spirit knew his. She loved my Patrick.  Her spirit knew his spirit, and they loved each other. I’m so grateful. Grateful to have had the Godly example of womanhood that my mother set, but also for the example my husband leads with … he does not care about the status quo. He does not live according to the rules of religion or church. He lives according to what He has encountered in the living Word of God in his years of desperate seeking to know a God who would accept him at his most raw and desolate, which 38 years ago, he was living on the streets, unwashed, eating out of trashcans, skinny, wearing clothes that he’d stolen off of clothes’ lines, had track marks up and down both arms and up his neck from every drug he could get his hands on. He walked into AA, and some people shied away from him, but in his own desperation for an answer to his ‘demons,’ he stayed, and he fought.  His sobriety date is January 12th, 1987. Three months after that date, Patrick was reunited with his family. His father was in the hospital dying from heart failure, and Patrick, sober, was able to hold his earthly father in his arms and tell him he loved him before his father, Frank Cunningham, Sr., passed away at the young age of 50.

From those days forward, my husband wrestled with God and fought with God. He held on like Jacob fighting the angel in the night and never let go.  He’s covered in tattoos. He’s blunt. He’s rough around the edges. He speaks his mind. He’s not concerned about hurting feelings in the face of truth, God’s will, and sobriety. He’s been in prison and lived on the streets. He’s been in brotherhood. He’s pushed and pulled. And he found out that God did “give a shit” about Him through working the steps of AA with a man named Chuck Chamberlain in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Thirty-eight years of living in sobriety, working in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, working with other drunks and “degenerates” through the steps of AA and into a relationship with God the Father, and falling desperately in love with the God he found out did love him, not only in AA but in the infallible words of the Bible, which he has devoured over time, have made him into this man that I now am blessed to call husband. And my Momma loved him.  Sweet little Momma who was kind, tender, never said a curse word, always naïve to the ways of the world, loved this man because her spirit knew his spirit – and they had a bond that I will be grateful for every day of the rest of my existence!  God answered my Momma’s private prayers for me, which I’ve read in her prayer journals, and brought Patrick into our lives.  I’m so grateful he was there with us in those final days of her life, grateful that his spirit knew and obeyed what her spirit needed and craved. The Word of God.

¹² For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. ¹³ And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account.” ~ Hebrews 4:12-13.

^{* 5} “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. ⁶ But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. ⁷ And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. ⁸ Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

⁹ “This, then, is how you should pray:

“‘Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
¹⁰ your kingdom come,
your will be done,
    on earth as it is in heaven.
¹¹ Give us today our daily bread.
¹² And forgive us our debts,
    as we also have forgiven our debtors.
¹³ And lead us not into temptation,^[a]
    but deliver us from the evil one.^[b]’

¹⁴ For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. ¹⁵ But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” ~ Matthew 6:5-15

  “‘“The Lord bless you
    and keep you;
²⁵ the Lord make his face shine on you
    and be gracious to you;
²⁶ the Lord turn his face toward you
    and give you peace.”’ ~ Numbers 6:24-26

Amen.