I was mad. I was irate, infuriated, and enraged, yet none of those words
adequately expressed how I felt when she died. I was mad. Mad at cancer, mad at
my mother’s passing, but mostly, I was mad at God for allowing it to happen. It
was the summer of 2006. I rushed my 56-year-old mother to the emergency room
with stomach pain. The diagnosis was a ruptured appendix that needed surgery.
Nothing to serious, or so we thought. The hospital ran tests, did blood work, and
prepped her for the surgery. After her surgery, the doctor told us that Momma’s
surgery went well, but something wasn’t right. Instead of having very high white
blood cell count that comes with infection, hers was dangerously low.
A day passed, then two, we waited, I worried, and time crept by. The
oncologist came to consult us and give Momma some medicine to help her white
blood cell count climb, and when it didn’t the doctor scheduled a spinal tap. We
waited for the results, not knowing what they would be but praying it would be
good news. Those were breathless days when the waiting and the unknown were
more that I could bear. Two weeks after rushing Momma to the hospital, we sat
in the doctor’s office as he spoke the words that still echo in my ears. “I’m afraid
we have a problem, Mrs. Winstead; you have leukemia.” I cried, Momma sat stoic
and stunned, and the doctor prayed with us before leaving.
Momma’s treatment began immediately, and we practically lived on the 8 th
floor of the hospital for months. The nurses were kind, the doctor was excellent,
and the chemotherapy did its job. But cancer has a way of getting a hold of you,
and in October of that year, just one week shy of her 57 th birthday, she lost her
battle with cancer.
Being angry somehow validated my pain and gave me a false sense of
power. Lashing out was how I coped with her death. For a year, I held onto that
anger and bitterness. I didn’t pray, and when I did speak to God, it was to
complain about my mother’s passing. I let God know on a regular basis how unfair
it was. After all, my mother was a wonderful person who didn’t deserve to die so
young. She was a good Christian woman who faithfully served Him. Why did this
have to happen to her?
The Lord tried to get my attention, but I sulked up and stayed mad like a
child who didn’t get her way. Anger was a poor comforter. Looking back, He
lovingly tried to coax me back to Him. I now see that He used moments of love
and gestures of kindness to draw me near to Him. Out of the ashes of my broken
heart, God brought about a new way of life. My time on God’s anvil wasn’t quick
or painless, but it was fruitful. God really does use all things for our good and His
glory. In time, I realized that I had a story that needed sharing.
Rebecca encourages others in the grasp of death’s pain with a few encouraging
steps that were helpful in her process:
- Honestly tell God how much you hurt.
- Prayerfully seek out the counsel of others.
- Give God your pain and let Him give it purpose.
- Trust the process and keep the faith.
- All things work for your good and His glory if you will let it.
You can read more about Rebecca’s journey in healing and God’s redemptive
work in her life in our new book The Crucible of Loss. You can find this book and
other books that Rebecca has written on Amazon. Rebecca also has a weekly
video on Facebook every Monday that’s an encouraging way to start your week.
Until next time…
Continue the Pursuit,
Denise
