“For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time for my departure is near. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing” (2 Timothy 4:6–8).
The Land of the Living
“Mom is transitioning.”
My sister’s words landed like a bucket of cold water as I sat on the side of the bed in balmy Indonesia. My mom had just turned 91 years old.
The previous summer, we had thrown her a belated 90th birthday celebration—her first birthday party ever. She called all the shots: the menu, the guest list, the color theme, the playlist. Yellow roses, her favorite flower, filled the tables. She even agreed to wear the crown I had bought her. It was a beautiful day, and she was happy.
In early December, I returned to DC to spend time with her. Over the course of four days, I cooked for her, we cleaned out her closets, we watched old movies, and we slept a lot. I noticed she wasn’t eating much and that she was struggling to walk, even with her walker. I tried to get her to do some chair exercises, but every time I turned away, she stopped. We laughed, knowing that no one could ever make her do anything she did not want to do.
Since my dad’s passing, she had talked openly about being ready to die. “If I died today, I’d be okay with that,” she would say. But during that December visit, she said something different: “Every day I wake up, I am shocked I’m still here.” It felt less casual, more tired. I remember saying, “Well, I’m not ready for you to die.”
In early January, she went into the hospital. Nearly two weeks later, she was released, the day before her 91st birthday. She refused a nursing home, choosing therapy at home instead.
A few days later, I left for a long-planned trip to Bali. While I was away, she took a turn for the worse and refused to go back to the hospital.
“How much longer does she have?” I asked my sister.
What I really meant was, if I want to see Mom again, do I need to come now? She couldn’t answer.
I was 10,000 miles away—farther than I had ever been from my mother. Even more pressing, I was four and a half days away from her. Between flights, weather delays, and distance, nothing was simple.
I felt the need to say goodbye immediately. I wrote my mom a letter—words I couldn’t say out loud—and sent it to my son, who was in college nearby. He took the subway to her house and read it at her bedside while I watched on FaceTime.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too, Jen,” she mumbled.
Nothing was left unsaid.
Commentary
A Vigil for Mom
“For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time for my departure is near. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing” (2 Timothy 4:6–8).
The Land of the Living
“Mom is transitioning.”
My sister’s words landed like a bucket of cold water as I sat on the side of the bed in balmy Indonesia. My mom had just turned 91 years old.
The previous summer, we had thrown her a belated 90th birthday celebration—her first birthday party ever. She called all the shots: the menu, the guest list, the color theme, the playlist. Yellow roses, her favorite flower, filled the tables. She even agreed to wear the crown I had bought her. It was a beautiful day, and she was happy.
In early December, I returned to DC to spend time with her. Over the course of four days, I cooked for her, we cleaned out her closets, we watched old movies, and we slept a lot. I noticed she wasn’t eating much and that she was struggling to walk, even with her walker. I tried to get her to do some chair exercises, but every time I turned away, she stopped. We laughed, knowing that no one could ever make her do anything she did not want to do.
Since my dad’s passing, she had talked openly about being ready to die. “If I died today, I’d be okay with that,” she would say. But during that December visit, she said something different: “Every day I wake up, I am shocked I’m still here.” It felt less casual, more tired. I remember saying, “Well, I’m not ready for you to die.”
In early January, she went into the hospital. Nearly two weeks later, she was released, the day before her 91st birthday. She refused a nursing home, choosing therapy at home instead.
A few days later, I left for a long-planned trip to Bali. While I was away, she took a turn for the worse and refused to go back to the hospital.
“How much longer does she have?” I asked my sister.
What I really meant was, if I want to see Mom again, do I need to come now? She couldn’t answer.
I was 10,000 miles away—farther than I had ever been from my mother. Even more pressing, I was four and a half days away from her. Between flights, weather delays, and distance, nothing was simple.
I felt the need to say goodbye immediately. I wrote my mom a letter—words I couldn’t say out loud—and sent it to my son, who was in college nearby. He took the subway to her house and read it at her bedside while I watched on FaceTime.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too, Jen,” she mumbled.
Nothing was left unsaid.
The In-Between Space
As I began the long trip home two days later, something shifted. The calm I had felt in Bali disappeared. I entered a liminal space–somewhere between the land of the living and the land of the dead.
My mother was dying, and I could no longer compartmentalize what was happening.
I prayed that I would make it to her in time.
Less than twelve hours after landing in Chicago, I boarded another flight to DC, then a subway, then a short drive. I was not at all prepared for what was awaiting me at her bedside.
The Land of the Dead
When I reached her, everything else fell away. My mom was still alive, but she was no longer living. She was dying.
Mom had always been a force in my life—a steady presence through every season. She was there when I needed comfort, when I faced loss, when I started over. She showed up again and again, even when I resisted her help.
Now watching her at the end of her life, I understood something more clearly than ever: It was God who was my source, and his provision included giving me this woman as my mother.
For the next two and a half days, we focused on her comfort. Pain medication. Ice chips. Repositioning her. Clean sheets. Her birthday playlist. Caring for her body was the hardest part. She could no longer help at all. It took two people to do those intimate tasks that just a few weeks earlier she could do for herself. She had been strong and independent. Now she was completely dependent. If she could have resisted my help, she would have. Still, I wanted her to feel the same care she had always given me.
On her final day, there was little left to say. Pastors called and prayed. Family members said their goodbyes. Her best friend, Eva, called, sobbing. My mom responded, faint but present. A few days later, Eva passed as well.
I began taking my mom’s vitals every fifteen minutes. Eventually, the pulse oximeter stopped registering anything. Even after changing the batteries, it didn’t work.
The room grew quiet.
Her breathing slowed, then shifted—first in her chest, then shallow breaths from her mouth. And then, nothing.
My mom had gotten her wish.
Home at Last—Life Everlasting
I am not exactly sure when the pull of glory became stronger for my mom than anything this world had to offer. Selfishly, I am not sure when my being in this world stopped being enough of a reason for her to want to stay.
But I thank God for her witness. She finished her race, and she kept the faith.
This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom. The vigil at her bedside was one of the hardest experiences of my life, but it also brought a kind of peace. Not everyone gets two and a half days to say goodbye. Not everyone gets to be there at the end.
I am grateful that God answered my prayer to be with her one last time before answering her prayer to be called home and receive her crown of righteousness.
Jennifer McIntyre
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