My husband, Maurice, and I were watching over my grandchildren in Granby when he received the kind of phone call from his brother that no one likes to receive. Their 96-year-old mother had suffered a major stroke. She had been rushed to the hospital in the small town of Calico Rock, Arkansas and was in very serious condition. My brother-in-law urged us to get there right away.
As soon as we could, we left to drive across the country back to the state where we had lived for 24 years. The long car ride was quiet. As I looked at the familiar scenery, I reflected on my memories of the woman we were going to see. My mother-in-law, Mary Valeria, was the grand matriarch of a large family. She and her husband, Allen, had nine living children of which my husband is the eldest. Each of those children was blessed with children and grandchildren, with a total blessing of more than 100 grandchildren and great-grandchildren for Mary and Allen. I had been a part of this great family for almost 60 years, which had suffered Allen’s passing five years earlier.
As we navigated the winding roads, we passed an old barn just as we had done hundreds of times on the way from our home in Damascus to visit Maurice’s family in Calico Rock. We had joked in the past that the dilapidated building would blow over in a good wind, to which Mary would reply, “That old barn will stand as long as I do.”
Exhausted from the hard travel and days of constant worry, we finally arrived at the hospital to find that my mother-in-law had lapsed into unconsciousness and was completely unresponsive. We visited her room where this strong woman lay still except for her labored breathing. In Arkansas, we call that kind of struggle for breath a “death rattle.” She was fighting for every breath.
My husband and I joined the family standing watch at Mary’s bedside. We greeted and comforted the family members and other visitors that came to see Mary. During this time, she remained unconscious and totally still, except for that awful death rattle.
Finding an empty chair beside Mary, I sat and held her hand. That hand, now gnarled and frail, had always been busy cooking meals for her large brood and making beautiful quilts and other crafts. Often in our vigil, we sang songs to comfort ourselves and soothe Mary in case she was listening. At one point, when about 10 people filled the room, my sister-in-law suggested that we sing the hymn, His Eye is On the Sparrow. We started off strong, with mostly everyone singing along. Then, one by one, people dropped off because they couldn’t remember the words to the song. Soon I found myself singing alone.
I’ve always loved to sing, and in the past, I used my gift freely to sing on the radio, in choirs and to my babies. However, several years ago medical problems took much of my voice away. On that day, though—for Mary—I was able to sing the way I used to. The words and the melody, even the high notes, flowed easily. And as I sang, Mary’s breathing eased. By the time I’d finished the last notes, Mary was lying peacefully as if she was just sleeping.
Several people in the room noticed this wonderful blessing—it was such a relief. I moved to let go of Mary’s hand to step outside but stopped when I felt her hand tighten on mine. I squeezed back and sat down again.
Eventually, Maurice and I returned to our home in Damascus. We passed that same old barn; it was still standing. The next morning, we got the news that Mary had passed away. As the eldest son, the family looked to Maurice to take care of the funeral arrangements. So, Maurice once again drove the familiar roads to Calico Rock. He passed that old barn that we’d seen standing just the day before, but now it had finally collapsed! Somewhere, we knew that Mary was nodding her head as if to say that she was right after all.
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There is a thought-provoking beauty in these stories. In sharing them perhaps we will find power in the realization that they happen more often than one person may think.
This monthly column is inspired by the members of Pilgrim Covenant Church