My first labor and delivery experience was horrific. My daughter had anencephaly, diagnosed only one week prior to her birth, and we knew that even if she survived her birth, she would soon die. Her neural tube had not closed, and her brain had never formed. She was completely dependent on me to keep her alive, so we knew we were leaving the hospital with empty arms. God graciously spared me the pain of watching her take her first and lasts breaths, and she was stillborn – truly the saddest day of my life. For me, nothing has ever compared to January 11, 1991. I remember every person who was in that room while I labored for an entire day and night. Some of those in the room I had chosen and asked to be there with me; some I had not. Some were helpful. Some were not helpful at all. Some kept me focused. A few distracted me.
When Rory was born, I had only that one experience of labor to draw from, and knew how important it was to breathe purposefully and rhythmically with each labor contraction, and then resting to prepare for the next. A candy wreath I had made for the nurses weeks prior hung on the wall in my room where I would lift my eyes and focus on those little red cinnamon candies with each contraction. Family surrounded me providing comfort while I rested in between contractions. Encouragement came from every direction this time, from gentle caresses to spoken words reminding me that soon Rory would be in my arms. A whole team of people kept me focused and helped me welcome Rory into the world.
Two years later, my sister would sit beside with me in the operating room during a C-section, and not only be face-to-face with me through the entire procedure, but also be the very first to see the full head of hair on Ian. It was a very difficult time in my life for multiple reasons, and having her there to help me stay focused through my third child’s birth was such a gift to both my son and I.
Each birth is so different – and every death equally as individual and unique.
Why do we gasp during prayer requests when a faithful brother or sister says they no longer wish to suffer, undergoing chemotherapy or other difficult medical procedures and treatments to prolong the inevitable? It is not our place to tell them when they have fought hard and suffered enough. It is not our place to tell them when enough is enough.
It’s just my opinion, but that is the equivalent of telling a woman in labor to stop pushing and go home.
“Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” Psalm 139:16
If we as Christians, really and truly believe what we say we do – that we are 100% certain of our eternal destiny, why do we discourage people who are approaching the finish line of their race with sighs as though they are quitting? I believe we all miss many opportunities to be encouragers in the most sacred of all times in the lives of our loved ones.
If you’ve ever been in a labor room and helped coach your spouse through the birth of your child, you know what an incredibly emotional moment that is. Few words are adequate to describe the experience of being invited to be present when a new life made in the image of God takes its first breath and Mom holds her child for the very first time.
Equally as profound is the opportunity to walk alongside someone who is dying. That ground is as sacred as that of the labor room. To just be present during a completely silent time, watching as a loved one seems far away, perhaps working out things that are only between them and God, being present to hold one hand while God holds the other – it’s as if they have a foot in this world, and a foot in the next. Short of going ourselves, I’m not sure you can get much closer to heaven than this.
I’ve heard memories shared, confessions made, apologies offered, forgiveness extended, and relationships healed. It has been a gift to me to have witnessed some of the moments I have – and they have made me all the more wiser for them. I’m grateful. And sacred ground – it truly has been.
So how do we help someone die? We encourage them. We remember that there will be those who distract them with discouragement, and say things like, “Don’t you want to keep fighting? Don’t you love us? Come on, you’re a fighter, not a quitter! How could you quit on us? How could you do this to us?”
Instead, we remember how crucial it is for our loved one to stay focused on the prize for which they’ve spent a lifetime running – Jesus Himself, especially now in their final sprint. This is the leg of their race when they need their forever family more than ever, to be reminded of all of the promises of God they know to be true, but must now lean into them in a whole new way. It’s just as hard to die as it is to be born.
When labor changes and it’s time to push that baby out, every distraction has to leave the room, and all concentration must be 100% on breathing and resting, breathing and resting, and listening to those who are coaching you through every step. Death is similar. We help our loved ones fight hopelessness and continue to focus solely on Christ by helping them remember to take every thought captive, as Paul tells us to do in 2 Corinthians 10:5. We remind them that the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning, and His faithfulness is great.
We help them find meaning in their suffering by reminding them that their identity is in Christ. We remind them that they are adopted by the Most High, and when God looks at them, He sees the righteousness of Christ. They are now heirs of His Kingdom. Their sins are forgiven and remembered no more. We encourage them not to doubt the goodness of God, and we continue to preach the simple Gospel to them over and over and over. They need to be reminded that the labor is almost over, that they have fought the good fight and have finished the race, and will soon cross the finish line and see their Savior face-to-face. I often imagine that perhaps those who have gone before us are there, already cheering us on, anxiously waiting on the other side of that very finish line to help welcome us home.
It’s been said a million times that our sense of hearing is the last thing to go. I’ll go to my grave believing that even in my own last breaths I will recognize the sweet sound of my own sons’ voices. I am certain I will. John Piper says that a dying saint’s last caregivers should be singing Gospel sweet promises into their lives. Can you imagine what a gift? So preach the Word brothers and sisters. And don’t stop. Sit bedside and marvel at the truth that while our loved ones outer self is wasting away, their inner self is being renewed day by day, and we get to be present and hold their hand while our Abba Himself holds the other one.
What a gift.
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