Emma’s deep, racking cough shook the room. It
had persisted over many days, despite the best efforts
of her doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and
other caregivers. Although she had great diffculty
talking in between coughing fits, she insisted that
I stay. Her family, who were usually present, were
not in the room, and she wanted to talk.
“This is not going to go on much longer,”
she declared. “Not going to go on much longer?”
I asked. “I’m dying,” she said matter-of-factly.
Thus began a deep conversation in which she did most
of the talking and I did most of the listening.
Emma was very much at peace with her life, at peace
with herself, and at peace with God. Looking back
over her life, she was able to see many times in which
God had been there for her, providing protection,
opening doors of opportunity, providing needed resources
just when they were needed.
Church had always been a source of replenishment for
Emma. Reflecting on the years when she was raising
her children, juggling the demands of being a single
parent and holding down a full-time job, she said
it was always important for her to go to services
at church anytime the doors were open – Sunday
morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday night – even
when she was bone weary. “What was it about church
that caused you to go even when you didn’t want
to?” I asked. “My flowers needed watering,”
she said simply.
“My Flowers needed watering.” That phrase
was Emma’s metaphor for what church meant to
her. It was where she went for replenishment. It was
where her friends were. It was where she encountered
God in special ways. It was home.
I must confess that Emma watered my flowers that day.
I was moved by her forthrightness in facing her approaching
death, and I was uplifted by her simple trust in the
God who had been faithful to her in so many ways over
the course of her life. I told Emma how much her faith
encouraged me, and her face, worn with illness, brightened.
By God’s grace, we both received a blessing that
day.
