The Day Faith Became Fact
At 4:00 this morning, my wife’s phone rang.
My own phone was on Do Not Disturb, so my sister called her when she couldn’t reach me. A few moments later I was returning the call, already knowing what she was going to say.
“She’s gone.”
The same words she spoke a few years ago when my father passed away.
“He’s gone.”
After hanging up, I got dressed, ground some coffee, and stepped outside to my usual spot on the patio.
The sun wasn’t up yet.
The neighborhood was quiet.
The coffee was warm.
And for a while, I just sat there.
Most mornings I sit in this same spot with my Bible and a cup of coffee. It has become a daily reminder to slow down before the demands of the day begin. To meet with Jesus. To focus on being instead of doing.
It sounds simple. For me, it isn’t.
My mind naturally drifts toward projects, responsibilities, deadlines, plans, and problems that need solving. Sitting still has always felt harder than staying busy.
But this morning there wasn’t much to do.
There was only remembering.
As I sat in the darkness, I thought about my mom.
The truth is, I have been saying goodbye to her for most of my life. Since the late 80s, she battled one health crisis after another. Hospital stays. Surgeries. Infections. Complications. More recoveries than I can count. There were so many moments when we thought it might be the last time. So many conversations that felt like goodbye.
Yet somehow she always pulled through.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Over the years her body slowly surrendered things most of us take for granted.
First strength.
Then mobility.
Then independence.
But there was something she never seemed to lose.
Joy.
And faith.
After my father died, the losses came faster.
The home they had shared was gone.
Then independent living.
Then assisted living.
Then skilled nursing care.
Each move represented another layer of independence slipping away.
And with every transition came the same question.
“What is my purpose now?”
She asked me often.
I think she genuinely wanted to know.
What purpose remained when you could no longer do the things you once did?
What purpose remained when your world became smaller and smaller?
What purpose remained when others had to care for you?
I never knew exactly how to answer.
What do you say to someone who has faithfully served Christ for decades and now finds herself confined to a bed, dependent on others for nearly everything?
As her health continued to decline, the questions remained.
Then the strokes came.
Mentally, she was still there.
She knew exactly what she wanted to say.
But the words often wouldn’t cooperate.
Conversations became one-sided, asking yes/no questions listening for whispered confirmations.
Sometimes they became long pauses while we tried to understand.
And yet somehow, through all of it, she remained remarkably joyful.
Not cheerful in a superficial way.
Not pretending everything was okay.
But genuinely joyful.
She still smiled.
She still laughed.
She still trusted.
And she still believed.
During my last visit with her, she managed to whisper “purpose” with a saddened look. I confirmed—“You want to know what your purpose is?” She slowly lifted her hand and pointed right at me as if to say, “Yes! That’s what I want to know.”
Struggling to answer her, I left determined to help her with an answer.
That evening, my mind drifted to the Gospels.
Again and again, Jesus noticed faith.
The centurion.
The bleeding woman.
The desperate father.
The frightened disciples.
When Jesus saw faith, He called attention to it.
He seemed delighted by it.
And for the first time, I wondered if perhaps my mother’s purpose wasn’t something she still needed to do, but to continue being.
Maybe it was found in what she was already demonstrating.
Faith.
Simple faith.
The kind of faith that trusts God when your body no longer works the way it once did.
The kind of faith that survives disappointment.
The kind of faith that keeps believing after decades of suffering.
The kind of faith that whispers prayers when speaking has become difficult.
Maybe God simply delighted in her faith. Something only found on this side of heaven. To welcome her into heaven, would stop the one thing she had to offer Him. Faith would become fact and maybe, just maybe He wanted one more day of faith. Simple faith.
I shared this with her, hoping to answer her question, but all the while reminding myself, just be.
As dawn slowly broke across the sky this morning, another thought settled into my heart.
For seventy-eight years she believed.
Today she sees.
The Jesus she trusted through surgeries, hospital rooms, grief, loss, walkers, wheelchairs, and whispered prayers is no longer known by faith.
She sees Him.
The promises she held onto have become reality.
The hope she carried has become sight.
The questions have been answered.
The waiting is over.
And perhaps that is why I find myself smiling through tears this morning.
Because after all these years of watching her suffer, after all the goodbyes, after all the hospital rooms, after all the questions about purpose, I realize something.
My mother’s life was never defined by what she could do.
It was defined by whom she trusted.
Even to the very end.
In an unexpected way, she taught me something from that nursing home bed.
It’s not about doing. It’s being. Just be, Bobby. Just be.
This morning, my sister told me she was gone.
But as I watched the sun rise with coffee in hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that another description was far more accurate.
She isn’t gone.
She’s home.
And today, her faith ended and became fact.
Mine grew just a little more. Thank you, mom.
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