A Wink and a Prayer

May 2009

by Peggy Tampson

My mother died. She was 84 going on 50. We lived with her dying for five weeks. In her dying, she lived heroically for Christ.

Something had happened to her along the way, something that many of us strive to achieve by doing yoga, reading a book, or listening to music. That thing is inner peace and contentment no matter what happens. Her peace came from the knowledge that she was a child of God, saved by grace.

Mom had put a stone over Dad’s grave that read: I have called you by name, you are mine (Isaiah 43:1). That verse was life to her. The Isaiah text goes on to talk about God’s presence when we go through the waters and struggles of life. That’s exactly what her name meant—Elsa Martha—consecrated by God, but sometimes sorrowfully struggling.

At 83, Mom had a knee replacement. She was a stellar patient, and much to our chagrin (really, our delight), she was soon driving to nursing homes to minister to the “old people” and heading a prayer ministry for her congregation. You couldn’t have a chat with her without another phone call coming in with a prayer request.

Then the stroke happened. She lost her balance and her gait was uneven. In the hospital, her right arm grew weaker and eventually went limp. “We’ve got to add stroke people to the prayer list,” she said. “Some of them can’t function at all.”

Although rehab was supposed to be helpful, her smile dimmed. She knew that her speech and movement were deteriorating. Mom started having seizures, and tests revealed a brain tumor. Drugs stopped the seizures, and her smile returned. Every doctor received a warm hand squeeze from the only hand that worked, a hearty thanks, and a wink (because words couldn’t be counted on to come out right). Roommates told us how Mom’s encouragement at night kept them hopeful. She introduced them all to her best friend, Jesus.

So much to say

The pastoral minister from her church stopped by to tell her, “We’re all praying for you, Elsa.” Her response was, “What the heck for?” Then came the hand squeeze and wink.

During those days she pronounced the sentence that we will always remember: “I am so sad that I do not have the wherewithal to talk, because I have so much to say.” Her eyes twinkled because it came out just as she wanted it to be said. Through halting speech, she told us that she wanted to talk to each son-in-law to be sure that he understood God’s promise of eternal life through Jesus. We daughters weren’t exempt. We’d heard the beautiful speech, seen the transformation, and knew the hope that comes from knowing that you are a child of God, called by name.

Mom agreed to a biopsy—for us. We played Hangman on the hospital room whiteboard as we waited for surgery. Mom was still trying to teach us about God. Her word was going to be psalms, but her illness made her spell it a bit different “No, that isn’t right,” she laughed, “I spelled it wrong.” She was trying to tell us that when everything seems wrong and hard, read the Psalms.

The time came. The surgeons came in to explain the tumor and the procedure to Mom. “Thank you,” she said, “I understand, but we’ll still hope it’s just an infection.” And she winked.

It wasn’t long until the doctors had news for us—bad news.

Death introduces itself in a quiet way. The response can be a peaceful submission, a drive to leave a legacy, a fight to the end, or a desire not to know. But Mom’s response was to seize each moment as an invitation to undo death’s fearsome hold on people by telling them about life in Christ.

Going home

We went to the recovery room and waited for her to wake up. That was hard, but harder still was the news we had to tell her. During the procedure, her pacemaker had failed. Replacing it meant another operation. But Mom’s dialogue with God had already charted the course. Hardly able to speak, she clearly said, “No, it’s simple, I’m going home. No more.” Home clearly meant heaven. No wink this time, just the determination of a tired child of God.

From then on she thanked every doctor with her outstretched hand, a squeeze, a wink, and her witness, “I’m going home.” They knew what she meant. A blood clot formed and the doctors came quickly to dissolve it. “No, thank you, I’m going home.” They said, “You could die.” She answered, “That’s fine,” and winked. We took her back to her condo for what we hoped would be several weeks. We all camped out there, even the grandchildren. It was busy and she tolerated it all. She didn’t even mind the cupboard doors slamming because she was on a mission to go home. God’s promise was in her heart.

But our three-month hope was futile. We had one week. People streamed in to see the woman who had touched them and prayed for them. Her brother came for three days to sit with her and sing hymns in German. Yes, our God is a mighty fortress! On the last day she took out her dentures—the thing she had dreaded most. She had to tell the good news of Jesus with her outstretched hand and little wink. She could no longer speak.

We kept vigil. A little after sunrise we were awakened—was it an angel calling us to be with her at her homecoming? One last gasp and then she entered into the peace she had believed in for a lifetime.

Full of joy

Now our task was to prepare for her homecoming celebration. We remembered that one day she had struggled to tell us that something important was in the kitchen, or in her wallet, or in her notebook. In the kitchen drawer we found check registers. Each one had a note: My Funeral. That isn’t all we found. We found the testimony she had written about her faith journey. Mom would want you to read this part of it:

Peggy Tampson served as journal keeper as she and her sisters, Susie Novak, Holly Stiles, and Tammy Toburen, witnessed this faithful adventure. Peggy lives in Medina, Ohio, with her husband and their newly adopted 14-year-old twins.