This is Holy Ground

Note: This was written in the hours leading up to my mom’s passing, before we realized how close we were to the end. I’ve chosen to leave it as it was written—raw, real, and in the moment.

There are moments in life that don’t feel ordinary—
not because they’re dramatic or loud, but because something in you knows…
this matters in a different way.

This is one of those moments.

My mom is in the final season of her life.

She is bedridden now. She rarely speaks. She’s in pain. She no longer eats, and drinks very little. There are times I enter the room or when I sit with her and can’t immediately tell if she’s still breathing. So I check… and then I check again.

She has already passed through the stage of seeing and talking with people who aren’t physically here—some of whom have already gone on before her. And while she’s not what most would call “imminent,” we are close enough that I don’t leave much to chance anymore.

And yet… she’s still here.

Not in the way she used to be.
But not gone either.

Somewhere in between.

As I sit in this space, I find myself not just looking at where we are…
but looking back at where we’ve been.

This journey didn’t start here.

It’s been years of ups and downs. Seasons of steep decline followed by what felt like miraculous recovery. Enough times that I stopped trying to define “the end” too clearly. Enough times that hope and realism learned to sit side by side.

And now, standing where I am today, I see those years differently.

Moments I didn’t fully understand then…
decisions that felt hard or unclear…
even the small, ordinary days…

They all seem to carry more meaning now.

Not less.

My mom is loving, funny, selfless, stubborn, giving, resilient… magnanimous, and just ornery enough to keep things interesting.

She’s a Christian. A single mom. The kind of person who would give even when it cost her something.

What most people wouldn’t know just by looking at her is how quick she is—how sharp her wit has always been. Her humor is dry, subtle… and never mean.

Even now, in the middle of all of this, there have been moments—unexpected ones—where I’ve heard her laugh.

Not a small laugh.

A full, joyful, from-deep-within kind of laugh.

And in those moments, something shifted in me.

I realized… reality, accuracy, tomorrow—those things weren’t what mattered most right then.

What mattered was that she was experiencing joy.
What mattered was that she was loved.
What mattered was that, even here, something good was still breaking through.

This journey hasn’t been simple.

There have been hard moments.
Moments where I’ve had to wrestle with what it means to honor her wishes.
Moments navigating family dynamics that aren’t simple or easy.
Moments where love is very present—but not always expressed the way I wish it was.

And I need to say this honestly:

I haven’t done this perfectly.

There are things I’ve said or done that I wish I had handled differently.
Moments where I was tired, frustrated, or unsure—and it showed.
Times where I wish I had more patience, more grace, more clarity.

Even my faith hasn’t been steady every step of the way.

There are moments I forget that God is here… that He has a plan… that He is carrying both of us through this.

And then there are moments where His presence feels so real, so close, that it’s almost tangible.

Not something I can explain.
But something I know.

But through all of it—there is faith—hers and mine.

Not perfect faith.
Not always steady faith.
But real faith.

The kind that says:

Even when I don’t understand, I still trust.
Even when this hurts, I still believe.
Even when I lose sight of Him for a time… He has never lost sight of us.

Because He hasn’t.

The Bible gives me a framework for what I’m watching unfold—whether I fully understand it in the moment or not.

That this is not the end.
That to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.
That there is rest.
That there is peace.
That there will be restoration—body and soul.
That eternity is real, and it is good.

I don’t hold onto those things lightly.

I hold onto them because they ground me.

I want to say something clearly, so there’s no confusion.

This is a journey of faith—for my mom, and for me.

Everything I share here will be shaped by what I believe God has said and taught me about life, death, salvation, and eternity. Not to persuade, not to argue, and not to debate—but because it is the lens through which I understand what is happening.

If you choose to read this, you are welcome here.

If you believe differently, that’s okay—I respect that.

All I ask is that the same respect be given in return.

This isn’t a space for debate or criticism of faith.
It’s a space for honoring a life, a journey, and what I believe to be a sacred transition.

If that’s not something you can do, it’s okay to step away.

I’m not writing this because I have it all figured out.

I don’t.

I’m writing this because this journey—like so many others—is both deeply personal and profoundly shared. No two paths look exactly the same, but that doesn’t make one more meaningful than another.

Every journey matters.

Every life matters.

Every ending matters.

And I’m beginning to believe that these moments—these in-between spaces where heaven feels just a little closer—are worth paying attention to… and worth honoring.

If you choose to walk through this with me, I won’t promise neat answers.

But I will be honest.

I will share what I’m seeing, what I’m learning, what I’m remembering…
and what I’m still trying to understand.

And I will hold onto this truth:

God is here.

Not just at the end.
Not just when things resolve.

But right here… in the middle of it.

And that changes everything.

If something in this resonates with you, you’re welcome to stay and walk along with me.