What I learned when my mother died

It was three months ago yesterday that our mother's body was lowered into the earth at a cemetery in Little Rock, Ark. The woman my brother and I called Mom for about six decades had entered the presence of Jesus three days earlier after more than 96 years of this life. The last 12 days of her earthly pilgrimage were spent in a hospital as her health declined and she awaited the call of her Savior. We -- my brother and sister-in-law, my wife and I, joined at times by our daughters -- shared those days and nights with Mom in her hospital room.

I'm finally taking time now to record some observations from those final days of her life and the days that followed. They are:

1. Life is fleeting. Even with a life of 96 years, Mom's earthly existence was "a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away" (James 4:14). While we were in Arkansas, I looked at some photos of Mom my brother had found that I had never seen. She was a beautiful girl in her 20s in goofy poses with her girlfriends while she lived and worked in Washington, D.C., during World War II. In a breath, seven decades passed, and she was a shell of her once vibrant self, helplessly captive to her mortality.

2. Guidance is vital. Mom had an advanced medical directive to help guide us in case she was unable to express her desires for end-of-life care. Even then, it was not easy. We spent time praying, pondering, and discussing. God blessed my brother and me with wise counsel from his close friend, a physician who had gone through a similar experience with his mother, and a friend of mine who is a leading, evangelical medical ethicist. We believe God's guidance was affirmed in the days that followed our decision-making on Mom's treatment.

3. Hymn singing is helpful. Decades of singing old hymns bore fruit in that hospital room. We -- and sometimes I alone -- sang "Amazing Grace" and "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" and "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross" and others. I enjoy many modern songs, but the old ones we sang with the saints in worship for decades -- memorable in their lyrics and tunes -- were the ones we could remember at the bedside of a woman who loved them. I don't know if she could understand what we were singing, but we could. And that was important.

4. Going home is possible. The memorial service for Mom in Little Rock proved a surprising blessing -- for me at least. We gathered with Mom's longtime friends and fellow church members but also friends whom we had shared life with in that church family decades earlier. Some had taught and mentored us. Many had loved us. Some we had not seen in decades -- and likely will not see again in this life. Our gathering to honor Mom and to worship God turned into a gracious gift I did not expect: It turns out you can go home after all.

All of these are reminders of God's grace. Even in death, and sometimes especially in death, there is His grace.