Glimpses of Glory
Spiritual Encouragement for Caregivers
Author note: May swept me up and away with its beauty and busyness…Daily caregiving and all the outdoor tasks leave little time for actual writing. The last few cold, rainy days have allowed more computer time.
Here is one of my favorite stories, which took place a decade ago. I know so many of you are involved in caring for older family members or will be at some point, so hopefully this will encourage you to look past the difficulties for the glimpses of heaven along the way…(and don’t forget to check out your worship song at the end).
Glimpses of Glory
Mom was seeing glimpses of heaven, and I felt envious.
After all, we were her caregivers, reluctantly along on her Alzheimer’s journey, exhausted and grieving each step of the way. We longed to have a glimpse of her visions! I was determined to keep my eyes open and my heart attuned to any windows opening into heaven.
A Season of Sadness
It had been a long, agonizing season for us. Following an eight-year Alzheimer’s journey with my husband’s father, we noticed my mother, at age sixty-five, with the same symptoms. As a nurse, I knew Dad had no idea what he was up against. He had recently brought my 95-year-old Grandma into their home but couldn’t care for them both.
With my husband’s blessing, I left my job as a middle school nurse to coordinate the medical care needed for both women. Then we moved Grandma into a nearby nursing facility.
Several times a week, I drove the 35 minutes to their house and spent the morning helping Mom’s hospice caregiver, and then the afternoon helping Grandma. Each day brought a new set of problems and challenges, requiring constant contact with both medical teams. By the time I got home to pick up my two kids and make our family dinner, I felt empty and spent. Often, tears flowed the entire drive home.
One morning I arrived in my parents’ driveway, laden down with bags of supplies. Approaching the side door, I glanced down the hill into their backyard and noticed her scraggly, neglected rose bushes. Those roses had been my mother’s pride and joy---she would carefully mist and powder them to ensure beautiful pastel blooms. Now, none of us had the time for them. Their decline seemed to parallel my mom’s journey. One of these little bushes had already died. Knowing how much she loved them, my dad tried transplanting it to a sunnier location, but to no avail. Its glory days were over, and so it seemed for my mother.
“I’m here!” I entered the house and kicked off my shoes. I plopped down the bags of groceries for Dad, and extra medical supplies for our hospice helper, Darlene.
“Guess what… Mom saw heaven this morning!” my brother Jim reported excitedly.
“Whaaat?!?” I stopped unloading the groceries and turned around. Darlene smiled and nodded in confirmation, then took the medical supplies into Mom’s room to prepare her bed bath.
“Tell me what happened!” I insisted, feeling left out.
“Well, Darlene and I were in Mom’s room sitting her up for breakfast. She was staring up into that same corner of the room again, like usual. All of a sudden, she sat up without any help and said, “It’s BEAU-tiful!” He let that sink in, trying to control his emotions. “You should’ve seen her face---she was practically reflecting glory!”
Like Jim, I was astonished. Mom had been immobile for months now and hadn’t spoken but a few words in the last two years. But here she was, doing her best to let us know that she could see something heavenly, a window that had opened for her eyes alone.
What Could She See?
My spirits lifted with the hope that her words had infused into the house, yet I felt wistful having missed it.
I hurried into Mom’s pretty bedroom, painted ivory. I loved its wallpaper encircling the lower half of the room, showcasing red and yellow peonies entwined around a garden fence. I knew yellow was her favorite color, so I was thankful she could see these flowers in her room.
Mom sat frail and shrunken in her hospital airbed, its motor humming on and off hypnotically. However, she sat awake and alert. Her shining eyes and smile assured me her vision was fresh in her mind.
“I heard you saw something wonderful this morning, Mom!” I exclaimed as I bent down to give her a quick hug and kiss. “I wish I could see it too!”
Mom merely grinned and locked eyes with me. I recognized her “I can see something that you can’t” look I’d noticed for months. Wherever she was situated, we’d find her gazing up into a corner of that room, captivated by what she alone could see.
Sometimes, I would ask her if she was seeing angels, family members in heaven, or even Jesus. Her eyes would dart from the corner back and forth as she grinned. It seemed like she was having internal conversations that I wasn’t allowed to be in on, and I was missing the jokes! I reasoned that this was my mom’s time to prepare for heaven and that I must be content to see things “through a glass darkly.” But my hurting heart longed for more.
A few months later, Mom’s needs surpassed what we could give at home. Dad agreed to move her into a nursing home a few blocks away as she neared the end. After the move, it amused me to find her gaze now fixed on the left corner of her new room. I imagined a doorway into heaven, or a mighty angel keeping guard over her.
A Special Day
Two weeks after her move, I arrived for a visit with a plastic container of tiny cupcakes in hand. Mom lay in her bed, head elevated, and eyes closed, either asleep or attending to the mental processes that precede death.
It was my birthday, and seven long years of watching Mom battle Alzheimer’s disease left me heavy-hearted. I sat on the edge of her bed, staring out her window, holding the cupcakes.
“It’s my birthday today, Mom…” I choked out. The last one we get to share on earth, I thought.
As I sat there miserable, I realized Mom had somehow heard me. She opened her eyes and said “Jenny…Jenny!” Gathering the strength she had left, she leaned forward, smiled, and opened her mouth. I smiled back and fed her a couple of bites of a small chocolate cupcake, silently thanking God for this last birthday gift—having been heard and “seen” by both of them.
Mom stopped eating a week later, and our family gathered around her bedside to tell her goodbye. As she lingered past the weekend, Darlene, Dad, and I took daily shifts and kept vigil at her bedside. We would read Scripture, hold her hand, fluff pillows, and perform mouth hygiene. I began to crochet an afghan in her honor-- a skill she’d patiently taught me years before.
Mom stepped into heaven eight days later, with Dad by her side, forever off on her new eternal adventure.
Afterward…
The grief and pain of that journey would take years for us to process. We were grateful for those glimpses into heaven that God allowed Mom and for the encouragement and hope that they provided to us along the way.
One warm day in June, six weeks after Mom’s funeral, Dad called me quite excited.
“Jen, you won’t believe this, but that tiny rose bush that stopped blooming a couple of years ago? Well… you just need to come down and see it… !”
I smiled and traveled down to view it with him. Sure enough, on that barren bush, a single, glorious yellow rose bloomed alone. As we suspected, it would be the last time that particular rosebush produced any blooms.
But what a gift—one last heavenly glimpse, just for us.
Are you caregiving now? Have you seen any glimpses of heaven yourself? Please share!
For Worship This Week:
“Flowers” by Samantha Ebert featuring Seph Schlueter, a beautiful-sad song, because caregiving seasons can be HARD and we need reminders that God can grow beautiful things out of our most painful seasons.
*Photo by Johen Redman on Unsplash
**Photo by Zalmaury Saavedra on Unsplash
Jen, what a beautiful story of God's faithfulness through those long, hard days. Bless you for your faithful care for your family. And that song ... wow.
I love this story Jen. I too am processing grief and the finality of death. Without the hope of heaven, I would not be able to keep going.