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Tortured, Imperfect, and Held by Jesus: One Mother’s Journey Across the Dark River
My two earliest memories of my mother couldn’t be more different. The pleasant one is our evening routine: She’d pull me onto her lap to recite the Lord’s Prayer and sing “The Old Rugged Cross” until I fell asleep. The other is her sobbing in her bathroom, telling me how badly she wanted to die.
This perplexing tension between Mom’s two sides carried on for 40 years or so until my mother went to be with the Lord earlier this year.
Tortured Soul
Mom’s childhood was marked by mingled joy and pain. Her parents’ divorce inflicted a wound she never recovered from. I remember when she shared about the time she sat on the sidewalk step outside her house from morning until evening. Her father had promised to pick her up and take her out for time together. He never came. Feelings of unworthiness and loneliness haunted her for the rest of her life.
Growing up, my mother was an enjoyable, hospitable, and thoughtful woman. It was rare for our home not to have visitors. Many of my sister’s friends called her “Mama Kell” because she’d welcome them into our home and feed them. Some friends with bad home lives would take refuge at our house because of the peace they found there. She and my father were always present in my life. They never missed a basketball game I played in. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear Mom yelling, “Follow your shot!”
Though Mom often smiled, everyone around her could feel her dark cloud of depression. Many of her days were so dark that staying in bed in the morning or drinking and watching TV late into the night were her only means of coping. She constantly tried to escape the demons of sadness that haunted her, even in her dreams.
Mental health discussions weren’t as popular in my childhood as they are today, but the realities of mental health struggles were alive and well in our family for decades. I witnessed my parents constantly navigating a minefield of medicines and doctors. I remember a brief season when Mom was admitted to a mental health institution. I admired how hard she fought to make our lives as normal as possible. I loved her for that.
Imperfect Saint
Though we were raised going to church, my mother didn’t come to faith until the Lord saved me in 1999. After my conversion, God began working in her life.
The transformation wasn’t swift, and at times it was uncertain. Her struggles often clouded her faith and our ability to interpret her faith’s fruit. Yet even in the darkest days, she didn’t forsake the Lord. She frequently questioned if she was a believer, primarily because she didn’t “feel worthy.” She thought she was too wicked and that God should never receive her. I assured her that the unworthiness she felt was both an opportunity to receive grace and evidence of her having received it.
After many years in a theologically moderate church, my parents transitioned to a local Baptist church. Mom began to attend Bible studies and was convinced she should be baptized. I had the honor of baptizing her. When they grew older, my parents returned to the beach where they’d begun life together decades before.
After 30 years of life in West Virginia, my parents moved to Calabash, North Carolina, and they asked me to help them find a church. I recommended two. They visited one and never tried the other. Lakeside Baptist in North Myrtle Beach is a vibrant church with godly leadership, gospel-centered preaching, and a loving community. My parents plugged in seamlessly, and I saw the effects on both their lives, especially Mom’s, almost immediately.
Mom developed a fresh love for God’s Word and began to study it more deeply than ever before. Scripture’s warnings proved helpful, not condemning. God’s promises became personal, not distant. The Bible’s truths sprang to life and deepened her faith—faith she’d need for the next leg of her journey. Just two years into their retirement, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The doctor gave her weeks to live and told her to get her affairs in order.
Good Finish
My wife and I moved my parents closer so we could help them navigate the difficult days ahead. Our church showered them with generous love, helping them move into a little house just across the street from us. Church members even set it up exactly as their house had looked in North Carolina to ease their transition.
Mom found a good doctor, and by God’s grace, she had seven and a half months of life with us. We saw them almost daily, and we created lasting memories. My children got to know their grandparents. My parents received love from our family and the Del Ray Baptist Church body. One night near the end, several dozen folks from church sang hymns in my parents’ backyard to encourage Mom’s faith.
The years she’d now spent immersed in God’s Word and in love from God’s people brought a measure of healing to her life.
I’d often call Mom to ask what she was doing. She’d reply, “Listening to you teach the Bible.” She found our church’s Bible boot camps online and in her final months, she listened to teachings on Job, 1 Peter, James, and other books.
About three weeks before Mom died, I walked in and caught her deep in thought. I asked her what was on her mind, and after a long silence, she tearfully said, “I wasted so much time. I should’ve read my Bible more but I wasted time watching TV, sleeping, worrying, and complaining. I wasted so much time.” I sat next to her on the bed and said, “Mom, you’re probably right. You did waste a lot of time. But you know what? The Bible is full of people who start their journey with God well but fizzle out before they make it home. But blessed are those who finish their course faithfully. Mom, you may not have started as well as you’d like, but you’re finishing well, and I’d rather that any day.” Mom’s frown reversed course and she thanked me, and we embraced.
By this time, Mom’s mental health struggles were largely forgotten. She still had bouts of anxiety and anger, but the years she’d now spent immersed in God’s Word and in love from God’s people brought a measure of healing to her life.
Finally at Rest
Things took a hard turn near the end. The cancer grew stronger, and Mom’s resolve lessened. There’s a blessing in a slow death because you have the opportunity to say everything you want to say. We read Isaiah 25 and the end of Revelation together. I sang “The Old Rugged Cross” to her and prayed for her often. But there’s also a horrible part to a slow death. Watching your mother eaten alive by a disease is awful. Her faithful husband of 54 years waited on her night and day. He showed his love to his withering bride, doing all he could to make her comfortable.
Dad called on a Saturday morning. He was panicked and tearful. He said he’d tried to help Mom to the restroom, but she’d become unresponsive and required assistance from 911. Within an hour, he and I sat in a family waiting room in a Virginia hospital, receiving news that my mother was near death. The doctor told us her organs were all shutting down, and it was only a matter of hours until she’d die.
The years she’d now spent immersed in God’s Word and in love from God’s people brought a measure of healing to her life.
No matter how long you know the moment of death is coming, you can’t prepare for it. Dad held Mom’s hand as we watched her struggle to breathe. She couldn’t speak anymore but groaned when we told her we loved her.
At around 2 o’clock, my mother was surrounded by her husband, son, grandchildren, and daughter-in-law, and her daughter was on a video call from France. We sang “It Is Well with My Soul” and “Amazing Grace” to her. Mom always wanted our family to be together as much as possible, and this seemed to comfort her.
After the family left, Dad and I sat by Mom’s side. Her breathing was labored, and we knew the end was near. I pulled out my copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, which I take with me almost everywhere I go. I turned to the final few pages and began to read.
Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the Pilgrims were got over the Enchanted Ground, and entering into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they comforted themselves there for a season. There they heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every day the flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the turtledove in the land. In this country the sun shines night and day. This was beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of Giant Despair, neither could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were within sight of the city they were going to . . . because it was upon the borders of Heaven.
By the time I read about Christian and Hopeful passing through the dark river and into glory, Mom had completed her pass through the river as well. In that moment, I was met with a strange mixture of grief and joy. Grief, for obvious reasons, but joy because I knew what Bunyan described was true for Mom. There was no more shadowy Valley to traverse. Nor could the cursed Giant of Despair chase Mom any longer. Never again would she visit Doubting Castle. Rather, her faith became sight that day, and she entered the rest she longed for her whole life.
My mother was an imperfect saint, but she finished well. Hell often tried to snatch her away, but Jesus held her fast just like he said he would. Praise him for it.