The Lord Has Been Our Shepherd

You just might see a few extra posts in the next few days. As a matter of fact, you will definitely see at least one, this one.

My mother has gone on to her eternal Home. I don't say that as some sort of vague platitude: her home in the clouds, or gaining her wings, or her immediate mastery of the harp. I mean that in the sense she is with Jesus, and being with Jesus is Home, does transcend this world, is gain (not of wings, I'm pretty certain), and is mastery, but I don't think it has much to do with musical instruments. My mom is complete and made like her Savior. She has been raised in glory. She is healed, pain-free and of sound mind. She is surrounded by joy; she is in the presence of Jesus, in the place prepared for her. She is, I believe in a place I have no right, no power, and no desire to keep her from. In fact, it is my prayer, I effectively, gently, lovingly guided her there.

I have a vivid memory of my mother praying the sinner's prayer. It was 1976, Mom was registering to vote for the very first time, and her politics was closely tied to her religion. Looking back, I see how traditional but unformed the idea of God and country was in our household; but I learned it was "what good Christian Americans or American Christians were supposed to be doing." Other than that, I never saw or heard of my mother praying unless someone else was doing the praying and she was doing the respectful task of keeping her head bowed and her eyes closed.

My father passed in 2009. When the pastor asked if he could read my father's favorite verse at his service, Mom waffled a bit and said, "Psalm 23." It wasn't his favorite, but it was the one place in Mom's Bible that saw the most activity: the place where carnations got pressed after every funeral.

In 2018, my husband and I were in a season of grace, one miracle coming right after another. Mom had already lived with us for about three years, and we were caring for two small children under the age of five. We were exhausted, but alert to what God would do next. One Sunday, as we filled the church pew, our pastor gave an altar call. Anyone in need of prayer, come on up front. Mom, my mom, my mom who for years never went anywhere but the local convenience store by herself, my mom who ordered food she disliked simply because she didn't want to order anything different from what I was getting, my mom who encouraged me to always think for myself but never followed her own advice, in her state of mind, turned to me and with resignation said, Well, I guess I'd better go up. Chalk it up to dementia if you choose, but the season we were in...? I'm not overlooking any possibility. My mom saw the urgent need to leave our pew and by herself, approach the pastor for prayer. 

Because I cannot know what has taken place in another's heart, from that day forward, I trusted God had it all under control. I still trust Him. Early this year Mom and I began praying through Psalm 23 each night as I tucked her in. Family members lit a fire in me with regard to that psalm, and I personally began meditating on it once a week. I had disregarded that psalm for so long because of my disdain for Mom's sentimentality, and yet, the Holy Spirit was using it to strengthen the bond between Mom and I. God's methods of humbling us are not without irony. His message through David promises not only sweet rest and quiet waters, but it assures us of the faithfulness of One prepared to get dirty, to go to any lengths, to work until muscles ache and fingers are cracked, to lay down His life to bring His sheep Home.

This past week, a magazine I read daily focused on the 23rd Psalm; the article was written by a woman whose mother had passed. As I sat in Mom's room later that day, the television, tuned to a music channel, showed a beautiful pastoral scene with sheep grazing peacefully. The following morning, a friend in a group text sent out some silly clapping sheep. And on Thursday morning, as I was finishing my weekly meditation on Psalm 23 and preparing to start my day, I received word that Mom was with her Shepherd. This may be a season of grief, but I trust it is also a season of grace. And I rejoice in having had the privilege of sharing this part of the journey with her.