My Dad had this beautiful portrait of my dear mother made last summer. It was made using a recent photo of her before she got real sick. He put it in their room near her hospital bed. For three months she laid in that bed, slowly dying. Everyday getting weaker and more frail.

I would wake up every morning and wonder if she made it through the night. Was she still with us? I would go in quietly and check her, immediately relieved she was still there.

But the relief would quickly be replaced by dread as I would wonder how much longer she would have to suffer. I would check her breathing, was she breathing slower than the day before? I was constantly looking for "signs" that the hospice pamphlet said would accompany the end.

When she finally let go of my dad's hand and grabbed the hand of Jesus, I was an hour or so away on the highway, trying desperately to get to her. For months I'd been by her side, wanting to be with her as she met her Savior face to face.

But it wasn't to be, and in the end God knew. My dad was with her and witnessed a private, Holy moment.

I was able to see her before they took her away. I climbed in her bed and put her arms around me, sobbing like I'd never done before. For months I tried to be strong and keep her spirits up. I wanted her to know I'd be ok. But then her spirit was gone and it was just me saying goodbye to the earthly shell of what was my wonderful, sweet mother.

Oh how I miss her...

Last Thursday, my doorbell rang and it was the mail man handing me a long tube. Can you guess what was inside?

The portrait of my mother! My dad made a copy and wanted me to have something special and meaningful of her. Isn't that sweet of him? He has been the most wonderful father I could ever ask for.

I'm going Friday to get it framed and we're hanging it in Claudia's room!