OU'RE A CASUALTY OF THE GOSPEL." The words echoed in my head. Evidently Mom's 50 years of recurrent bouts with malaria, contracted when she and Dad first went to the mission field in Venezuela, had damaged her liver. Fourteen months earlier the doctor had confirmed her malignant liver cancer. He now went on to say, "Unless God intervenes, you probably will not see Christmas."

When It All Began
Early on, before the diagnosis had been confirmed, Mom had been praying. She knew something was wrong. Preliminary tests indicated a serious abnormality, and the shadow of cancer loomed over her. In the quietness of time with God she heard her Savior say, "It's going to be all right. I am with you." She had not interpreted this as a promise of healing, but she had the certainty of her Lord's presence. Throughout the months, living with untreatable cancer, she clung to His promise with assurance.

A small group of family and friends gathered together for an anointing service and placed Mom in God's hands. God heard and extended her life far beyond any doctor's expectations. She was able to travel and enjoy time together with family and friends. Now we were 14 months down the road, and God had given us an extra year of precious moments and wonderful memories.

Towers Falling
September 11, 2001, and the turmoil of the collapsing twin towers was overwhelmed, in our lives, by the reality of Mom's last days. We had learned the night before that Mom was failing fast. That day Mary (my wife) and I drove down to North Carolina and arrived in the evening, just as Mom had finished making plans for her memorial service. She asked that I conduct the service if I could.

The four of us-Dad, my sister Glenda (a nurse), Mary, and I-spent the next two weeks tenderly nursing her. Day by day we grieved as we watched her fade. There was the poignant moment of loss when she sat at the piano only to discover that she could no longer play her beloved hymns. Then came the day when she could no longer move herself from the bed to the wheelchair, and it became my duty to lift her anytime she wanted to move. In spite of the growing sorrow of loss, we strove to enjoy the good moments.

Her determination to reach out to others was still strong. Sabbath morning, when she could not go to church, she asked for the phone and called friends who were shut in. In her slow, halting voice she encouraged them, pointing their eyes toward Jesus and praying with them.

Mom dreamed of riding through the North Carolina mountains and seeing Looking Glass Falls. Though we knew it would tire her, we lifted her into the front seat of the car and drove the hour to reach the falls. We found a quiet spot, opened the windows, and reveled in her joy in the midst of pain and loss. Somehow the mixture of joy and pain, blessing and sorrow, seemed right. Another day we shared the simple joy of a wheelchair ride on the quiet roads through their small neighborhood.

Then came the day when she was no longer able to get out of bed. We watched beside her as she struggled to breathe. On Friday, September 21, she continued to decline. We controlled her pain with medication, and she could barely respond. We watched with her through the hours of the night, and as Sabbath morning dawned, her failing breaths told us the end was near. The doctor came and prayed with us, telling us it was only a matter of hours. Then she rallied enough to talk with us. She affirmed her love for us and her trust in God. We sang hymns and read favorite promises of a better land and Jesus' soon coming. Exhausted, Mom went to sleep, and we thought we had said our final goodbyes.

One Still Standing
Her indomitable will to live kept her going, however. She rallied for a short while early Sunday morning. Once again she was able to say a few words, and we again turned to God. They were bittersweet moments of sorrow mixed with joy, assurance blended with loss. This time she slipped deeper into sleep, disturbed only by the struggle to breathe and the pain from the enemy within. There was no response when we spoke to her. Sometimes 30 to 40 seconds would pass between breaths, and we were sure we were losing her. The process continued all day Sunday and Monday.

Then Monday evening I noticed that her eyes had opened. Taking her hand, I stroked her forehead and asked how she was. She responded, "Oh Ben, I don't think I can keep this up much longer. I just can't breathe." I assured her it was OK-she had fought long enough. She could let go and rest.

She called for the rest of the family, affirmed her love for each of us, and even initiated several kisses with Dad. She worried about what would happen to Dad. We assured her we would stay close to him. Turning to Mary, my wife, she told her twice: "Take care of Ben." We talked for more than an hour. I asked her if she could rest in Jesus. "Oh yes!" she responded, without any hesitation. Once again we shared the promises of heaven. Later I asked if she could trust Jesus with her future. Again, with a firm voice she responded, "Yes! I can!"

At one point her eyes seemed to focus on something in the distance, and with confidence she called out, "Hold me, Lord." I wonder if God opened the windows of heaven to encourage her. When we get to heaven, I will ask her angel what she saw.

After more than an hour, noticing that she was weary and exhausted, I wanted to encourage her to rest. I asked if she could just rest in Jesus. Obviously it sounded like the same question, and this time with spunk she responded again, "Yes, I can!" But her tone of voice seemed to say, "Didn't you hear me the first two times?" We shared with her that she would rest and soon go to sleep, and then assured her that her next conscious thoughts would be the second coming of her Lord. The one she had served all her life would come to take her home.

Fallen to Sleep
Quietly she slipped into a deep sleep, and 24 hours later Glenda and I were by her side as she took her last breath. We felt the last beat of her pulse. After a long hard battle, Mom was resting in Jesus. The words took on new meaning.

It is difficult to describe the strange mixture of pain and joy we shared. As a family we wept and laughed together, remembering the many years of service in the mission field and the fun we had shared. We thanked God for the blessings that were so real. The bright spots were greater than the shadow that was so fresh. The emptiness was real, but so was God's presence. A day together as a family at the mountain home of a friend provided a quiet retreat to gather our strength and refresh our hearts.

The next few days blurred. Family and friends came together to celebrate a life of love and service. For me this became a time to integrate faith and feeling. Could the reality of the gospel and the promise of the resurrection meet the emptiness of our loss? Could what I had been teaching now meet the reality of death?

As I prepared for the memorial service it dawned on me: she was not a victim of the gospel-she was a recipient! There is only one victim of the gospel" Jesus Christ. Grace triumphed over death in Him, and through Him it will do so once again. There is peace in the valley. The promise is sure: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, . . . thou art with me!" (Ps. 23:4). Two words-gospel and grace-echo in my mind, for I have seen them, and I have felt them. I know in whom Mom believed. I would not wish for anyone to go through the sorrow and agony we shared, but I would not trade one minute of it. Each moment is a precious memory, each touch an anchor.

Do not talk to me merely of hope. I have not only hope-I have assurance!

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Ben Maxson is the stewardship director for the General Conference of Seventh-day Adventists.