She was "Mom."

Nearly 20 years ago, I stood by her casket reveling in the joy of having had her as "Mom."

Her last months were especially significant for me. We spent many visits talking freely about her approaching death. Sadly, there were those in the family who believed that we shouldn't talk with her about that. They thought it would cause her to give up, but early after the last diagnosis from her doctor she made it abundantly clear to me one day that she wanted to talk. She wouldn't likely last more than 6 months longer with her congestive heart failure, and she wanted us all to know she wasn’t afraid.

When I asked how she viewed death she said, “I’ve come to think of death as an old friend waiting.”

That was the tone of many wonderful visits exploring faith and the future.

On the night she died, I had just been cleared by my doctor to leave off my neck brace from a broken neck three months earlier. Mom knew how much pain I was in constantly. She had come to understand just what I meant when she would ask how I was and I would respond, "My ME hurts."

She had been semi-conscious to unconscious all day, and my older brother Ron notified me in the late afternoon that she likely wouldn't last the night. The 50-some mile ride; albeit in a comfortable car; hurt like crazy. Walking into her room was physically painful. I wanted to say, "Good-bye, Mom," but there were some present who still denied how seriously she wanted her "rest." So, I felt compelled to speak cautiously.

I went to her bed; laid my hand on her forehead and simply said, "Mom, I'm here."

She opened her eyes. "Oh, it's you son. It must be bad."

"It's OK, Mom. You can rest now."

She closed her eyes; I believe for the last time. She died peacefully several hours later. Because of my extreme physical pain that night, I wasn't able to stay and be present at the time of death, but I didn't need to be. We both knew I had said “Good-bye.”

So, there I was at her casket, reveling in the joy of having had her as “Mom.” I didn’t cry during that funeral time – before, during or after – and my wife wondered later, “Why not?”  The truth? I didn’t need to cry. Mom wasn’t gone. She was – IS always a part of all of us. How could she be gone as long as we carry her in our hearts?

But, there may be one thing missing. I remember how she would kneel by her bed each night before retiring, and she would lovingly lift each of us to God in her prayer. There by her casket, I wondered, “Who will say a prayer each day for each of us now?”

Sadly, I haven’t picked up that challenge.