December 20, 2019.
The hospice center was filled with the brightest sunlight we had seen in the last 5 days. A guitarist began to play beautiful acoustic music right across the hall from my mother’s room. My mama, who had always carried a deep love of music within her heart, was being serenaded and beckoned by the Almighty. It was so beautiful that I powered off the thermostat so she could hear it more clearly.
I spoke gently to Mama, reassuring her that I would take care of my sister and handle anything I thought she might be worried about. And for the first time in 5 days, I felt absolutely sure that I wanted to be there when her soul entered the Kingdom of Heaven. I told her so, and also made sure she knew that my sister would want to be there with her too. Just as I finished up the last of countless chats I’d had with Mama over the past week, my sister returned from the hospice kitchen and sat down on the other side of Mama’s bed.
It had been 5 days since Mama left ICU to be transferred to the hospice center; 5 miserable, long, tortured days of watching her “sleep” while telling her how much we loved her, how proud we were of her for fighting so hard for so long, how sorry we were that she had suffered so much, and how thankful we were for her and the gift of every moment we had shared together in our lifetimes.
It was incredibly hard not to hear her sweet voice responding or see her beautiful eyes gazing back at us as we spoke to her throughout that week, but we had been repeatedly assured by the medical staff that she could hear everything we said. So, we spent every day saying our “see you later’s” knowing that according to the doctor, she should not survive another hour, let alone another night. And then we’d wake up in awe each morning once we discovered she was still with us, still fighting.
But this morning was different. Her breathing was more labored than in the previous days, and I could sense a change happening. There seemed to be less of her there; less of her spirit was trapped inside the sick body that had held her captive with cancer for nearly 3 years. There was more of her elsewhere now, than in this hospice bed.
The guitarist played on, strumming the most beautiful selection of songs — hymns, Christmas songs, and old southern favorites that brought back wonderful memories. I heard several of Mama’s favorites, and I knew she was listening and smiling over us. As the music filled the air around us, I suddenly felt an urging to tell my sister that Mama’s time was near so she would be prepared. I knew in my heart that her transformation would soon be complete.
Then, just minutes after I had spoken those words, an old familiar guitar tune fell on our ears. The song immediately grabbed my sister’s attention, because it’s about dancing — something Mama had longed to be able to do again. My sister began humming the tune, and filled in the words once it reached the chorus:
“Dance, then, wherever you may be,
I am the Lord of the dance, said he,
And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be,
And I’ll lead you all in the dance, said he...”
My sister looked down at our mother, touched her hand, and said, “Now you can dance again, Mama.” And at that moment, Mama took her last breath and saw the face of God.
In that instant, I saw Mama’s spirit leave her broken body; I knew right away that she was finally free. And thru my tears of both sadness and joy, I thanked Mama for fighting so hard and for waiting for us to be okay before leaving. I also thanked God for the gift He gave of allowing us to witness that moment and feel Heaven in that hospice room.
It was the most beautiful, unimagined ending to Mama’s long and faithful fight. What an incredible blessing it was to experience such a heavenly event. We had been given the gift of closure, knowing that Mama was alive and well in Heaven — perfect and whole in every way.
“Dance, then, wherever you may be,
I am the Lord of the dance, said he,
And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be,
And I’ll lead you all in the dance, said he...”
Blessings,
Emily
