It was a warm July day in 2011 when I received a phone call I had always dreaded. My mother, who lived on our family ranch in Washington State, where I was born and raised, was on the other end of the line. Dad had gone to be with the Lord three years earlier, so whenever there was an emergency, Mom always called me.
This time her voice was strained, laced with a faint panic. She told me she was in excruciating pain in her back and chest, hardly able to move. The moment I hung up, an ambulance was called. Then I booked the soonest flight from Palm Springs to Washington State.
The whole flight, my mind was flooded with memories of Mom the woman who had taught me so much about love, perseverance, and faith. My mother wasn’t an ordinary woman; she raised four biological children and opened her heart and home to 38 foster children. Forty-two children in all—and as I’ve often joked, the 43rd child was my dad! Every single one of those kids knew they were loved. Even now I marvel at how God had given her such extraordinary capacity to nurture, correct, encourage, and pour life into so many children who desperately needed it.
By the time I arrived at the hospital that evening, she was surrounded by machines and monitors. Her face was pained, and it was clear she was in the fight of her life. I sat at her bedside that first night and listened. Through all her pain, Mom wanted to talk to me about the things that mattered most. She didn’t waste words; she spoke with purpose. That night, I realized I might be hearing my mother’s most important words to me the words she wanted to leave behind.
The next day her condition worsened. She suffered from congestive heart failure and had to be resuscitated twice with a defibrillator before being placed on life support. I was devastated, yet still hopeful. When I asked the doctor if she would pull through, he paused and said carefully, “I’m not sure she’ll make it through the night.”
But she did.
For six long days she remained mostly unconscious. I sat by her bed for hours, watching nurses and doctors come and go. One afternoon, two nurses stood at her doorway. Curious, I asked what they were doing. They said, “We’ve heard about this woman who raised 38 foster children, and how nearly 80 people have been in the waiting room praying around the clock. Everyone in the hospital is talking about her. We had to come see her for ourselves.”
On the seventh day, Mom opened her eyes. Immediately, she tried to communicate, fighting against the tubes in her throat. She looked at me desperately, silently asking, “What happened?” I told her she had pneumonia and congestive heart failure. Summoning all her strength, she mouthed the words, “Give me a chance. I can do this.”
Doctors warned us that when the tubes were removed, she probably would not be able to speak. But the moment they pulled them out, her first words burst forth: “Glory to God!”
The medical staff told us not to let her talk—she needed to conserve oxygen. But if you knew my mother, you knew that asking her to be quiet when God had given her something to say was impossible.
That night was especially hard. Around 4 a.m., she was struggling to breathe and fading fast. Then suddenly, she looked toward Tammy and said with authority, “I see a gold snake coiled up. I see you, devil! Get back. Get back!” She began praying fervently in her heavenly language. A nurse stepped into the doorway with a puzzled expression, asking what was happening. I said, “My mother is bilingual. That’s her primary language.” “Oh!” the nurse replied, visibly relieved, and walked back to her station.
For two hours, Mom prayed through that spiritual attack. Against all odds, she lived through the night. “The enemy tried to take me out before I finished my assignment,” she said. Then she looked me square in the eyes and declared, “Eddie, the devil can’t touch me. I will not die one day before my allotted days.”
I knew she was referencing Psalm 139:16: “All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.”
She added with a little grin, “I kind of hope today is not that day. I still have things I must do.”
And then she told me to call the family. “Who do you want to see, Mom?” I asked. Her answer was simple: “Everyone.”
Within hours, the family began to arrive children, grandchildren, relatives. One by one, I brought them into her hospital room. What happened next was nothing short of a holy moment.
For the next several hours, Mom used her voice for one final assignment. She anointed each person with oil. She spoke prophetically into their lives, encouraged them, challenged them, prayed over them, and led many in prayers of salvation. In all, she ministered to more than 60 family members that day. She was completing her last mission on earth.
When she was finished, she leaned back, exhausted but satisfied, and said, “I have done what I needed to do. Now it’s up to my Lord what happens to me, and I’m okay.”
Not long after, she slipped into unconsciousness and never woke up again. One of the last things she said to me was, “I’m okay now. I did what I needed to do.” Then she looked at me tenderly and reassured me: “Eddie, it will all be okay. We have God’s promise.”
Notice what she didn’t say. She didn’t say, “God failed me.” She didn’t ask, “Why is this happening?” She didn’t doubt His goodness for a second. Instead, with her last conscious words, she anchored herself in the faithfulness of God.
My mother died in faith. Hebrews 11:13 says, “All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it.”
She knew some promises were yet unfulfilled, but she had what I now call “Satisfied Faith.” She could see by the eyes of the Spirit what her natural eyes could not yet behold.
I’ll never forget watching her place her hand on Bethany’s womb and begin to describe her unborn children by faith. She spoke of their brown hair, eyes, their personalities. She even described seeing all her children playing on a porch. She saw in her spirit London, Roman, and Windsor before they were ever born. She didn’t live long enough to hold them, but she died rejoicing, satisfied in her faith, because she knew her God is faithful.
On her final day, a nurse asked if she could sing to Mom. With a beautiful, gentle voice she sang, “Till We Meet Again” by Kirk Franklin. And as the melody filled the room, Mom stepped peacefully into eternity.
I can almost hear my father’s voice on the other side, shouting, “Oh, glory!” as he welcomed her home.
Even in her passing, my mother left us a legacy faith that never wavered, faith that was satisfied in God’s promises, even those not yet fulfilled. She taught me that it is possible to live and die with a confidence rooted not in circumstances, but in the unshakable faithfulness of God.
Her life and her death remind me daily: we are not defined by whether we see every promise come to pass in our lifetime. We are defined by whether we trust the Promise-Keeper. That’s what my mother did until her very last breath.
And that’s what I want to do too.