Fiction

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When The Music Fades
By Justine Benoit

The notes clashed in my mind, melodies of little sense and chords of dissonance. Where had the music gone? All that was left now were painful memories. The once beautiful tune had been distorted over time, and now, all I could hear was something ugly.

Mom had been dying. Everyone said God would heal her. Everyone prayed confidently that God would heal her. But God had not healed my mother, and instead, He'd taken an all-too important life and left me here to suffer the loneliness of losing a loved one.

When Mom died, so did the music.

The only melody that made sense in my mind after that was the memories of Mom's rich voice, sweet but intense and healing in all its ways. Pure beauty, I remembered clearly, as if Mom was still singing the same lullaby to me at night. If God had given anyone a gift, He'd given one to her and that was the gift of music. Mom said that when I was born, God took some of her gift and gave it to me. She told me stories of when I was an infant; before I could speak, I would hum Jesus Loves Me back to her in my crib while she smiled in delight.

When Mom died, so did the singing.

After the funeral, I ran home, sat down at the piano, and smashed the nonsense chords. It didn't relieve the anger or the bitterness. I hoped that if God heard anything (since He obviously had not heard our prayers), He'd hear the ugliness I was now giving him. It was a form of vengeance probably; I figured that if God had also given me the gift of music like Mom had said, nothing would hurt God more than to hear me disowning that gift.

When Mom died, so did God.

I decided it was better to believe that there isn't a God after that day. Or if He did exist, I would make it a motive to stay as far away from Him as possible until the day I died, even if it meant enduring eternal suffering or whatever hell was really like. To me, the day that Mom died, it was hell.

It was exactly three months ago when Mom had gotten a letter back from the doctor saying that her white blood cells were too low. That was the first day I'd ever seen Mom cry. After that day, she was never the same again. The lively, colorful woman I'd grown to love so affectionately would sit lifelessly in a hospital bed with a pale face and dead eyes. Even the fake, encouraging smile she gave me was never convincing. Strangely enough, despite not being able to talk once the cancer went to her throat, Mom was able to sing just as beautifully as ever. The day she died, she sang one last song and said it was for me and for Jesus.

And so the days passed by, each one more bitter than the next. It seemed like the world was falling apart—no, falling in...on me. Life was a bunch of crumbling walls, and I was the helpless, abandoned city inside of those walls expecting nothing but more damage and debris.

Aunt Laura said it would get better, that time would heal the pain, but as far as I was concerned, it never did.

After going to court several times over legal guardianship issues, I finally was able to move in with Laura officially. This meant that I wouldn't have to live in the house with all the memories—the memories that were once beautiful but now brought nothing but pain to my heart. It was little things, like coming home to a place where Mama's perfume still lingered, seeing the piano where we once both sat and played and sang together. And when I would walk into the kitchen, the only thing I could think of was what it was like when I'd come home from school to a freshly cooked meal, or the aroma of whatever Mom had baked during the day.

The new house was very old-fashioned. Aunt Laura collected antiques, so her house reminded me of something off of TV Land. After two weeks of hiding in my new room, she insisted that I go to school to finish my senior year. I promised her I'd give it a try, but as I figured, after two months of classes, I had lost my motivation to keep my grades up, to socialize with anybody, and all of this left me feeling depressed and suicidal. I threatened Aunt Laura that I would run away unless she let me take the year off of school. I just couldn't do it any longer. “If my life was going to be this awful, I would rather live it out by myself than where people could see me,” I'd told my aunt.

Aunt Laura was a bright and cheery woman even after the death of her beloved sister. I've never understood how she did it, but I overheard her once on the phone, talking to one of her friends. She said that she needed to be happy for me, and had she known that I heard her, I would have told her that it wasn't worth it. I was bound to die in misery. In fact, life hardly seemed worth it. Mom always told me I was a drama queen so I figured I had the right to be dramatic.

It was an early Saturday morning when I looked in the mirror and realized how pale and gaunt I had become from staying inside for so long. Almost ten months had passed since Mom's death, and during that long period, I'd rarely stepped outside. Already feeling lost to depression, seeing how ugly I had become made it all just a little bit worse. Aunt Laura had kept suggesting that I get some sunlight because it was supposed to help me feel better, but I had always ignored her. That Saturday morning, I finally took her advice.

She had gone into town for a while to get some groceries so I decided to take a walk. After ten months, I didn't even remember what my neighborhood looked like. I stepped out onto the porch and instantly felt a tinge of life in me once again as the rays of the sun splashed onto my face. I squinted into the bright, summer day and looked around and decided to take the sidewalk towards where I remembered there being some sort of park.

The park wasn't far, turned out. I scanned the area and sat down on a swing. Children were playing all around me, laughing and having the time of their life. Even surrounded by happiness, I couldn't force myself to smile. And suddenly, I began to wonder why.

My heart pounded a little faster. I realized that maybe if I were to focus on getting out of the depression instead of why it was all happening to me, I could find happiness once again. Yesterday, happiness seemed like an impossibility, but as I sat and swung today, it wasn't all that far away from reality.

I looked across the street and saw a church there. For a moment, that tinge of hope I had just experienced was flooded with bitterness. But then an idea formed in my head. I had been blaming my pain on God this whole time, thinking that He had never heard one single prayer I'd said to Him, not one rage I'd yelled towards the sky. If I were to denounce Him in the church—the one place where I knew He had to be—perhaps He'd leave me alone and my life would be so much better.

I jumped off the swing, marched over to the church, but began to take hesitant steps once I reached the stairway that led to a little door. I climbed the stairs and opened the door, and instead of finding an empty sanctuary like I expected, music instantly flooded my ears. I looked in horror as a young man sat at the baby grand at the far end of the church, singing and praising a God who, as far as I was concerned, didn't deserve such praise. I was about to retreat as quietly as I could, but it was too late: the man had noticed me. He stopped playing and my heart froze.

“Hey there. Don't worry, I was just playing for the fun of it. You're welcome to come in,” he said with a smile, standing up and opening his arms warmly.

“No thanks,” was all I said. “I made a mistake...I, I shouldn't have come in here,” I stammered and turned to leave.

“Please, come in. It's been a while since I've had a visitor on a weekday,” he said kindly. “Just tell me a little bit of why you're here.”

I probably had the most uncomfortable look on my face as I took a few slow steps forward. And what was I feeling? Guilt? There was no reason I should have been feeling guilt. The last thing I thought I should feel was guilt. Maybe it had something to do with the bitter attitude I had marched in with and the warm one I had been greeted with.

“Really, it was a mistake that I came.”

“The way I look at it,” the man said, “if you showed up at God's house, it wasn't for no reason, and it definitely wasn't a mistake—God doesn't make those. I'm Pastor Davey,” he said. I almost expected him to reach forward and shake my hand charismatically, but instead he reserved his extra-warm welcome and simply gave me a smile.

“I'm Jana,” I said quietly. “You're the pastor?” I asked in shock. I had never, once in my life, seen such a young pastor. He couldn't be more than a few years older than me.

“Yeah, isn't that great? My Dad was the pastor of this church for many years, and when he died about a year ago, I had just graduated from seminary. It all worked out perfectly by the grace of God.”

My eyes widened even further.

“Your Dad died a year ago? And you're just...alright with that?”

“Well, you see, he went home to be with Jesus. I miss him, but of course I'm alright with that. It was just his time. He died of cancer,” Pastor Davey explained. He must have noticed my face growing paler or something that reflected the horror that I felt in that moment. “Jana, would you like to sit down?”

I simply nodded and took a seat in the second row of pews. He sat in front of me, in the first row, and laid a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“My, uh, my mom died of cancer, too...almost a year ago.”

“Cancer has claimed many lives,” Pastor Davey said. “Would you like to talk more about it?”

“Not really. I just don't understand how you can be okay with that. You act as if it's a normal thing. My mother should not have died! We prayed so hard and so long for her,” I explained, my eyes welling up with tears. It suddenly hit me that this was the first time I had ever talked about this with anyone, and for all things, it was with a stranger! A complete and total stranger!

“Sometimes God's plan is a bit hard for us to understand, Jana,” he explained. “God works in ways that you and I cannot even begin to comprehend. Look at it this way—would you have wanted your mom to suffer from the cancer any longer?” I shook my head slowly, drawing my knees up under my chin and staring at the ground. “Alright, well, let's say that God had healed her and sent her into remission. The chance of the cancer returning is very high. Would you have wanted her to suffer through the terrible disease again, and maybe even again after that?” I shook my head once more, tears beginning to stream down my face as I pictured my mom sitting in her hospital bed, all beauty drained from her face as the chemo took its toll on her.

“It still isn't fair.”

“Since when do things need to be fair? Is that a rule or something?” He laughed a little bit. “Would you mind pointing that one out to me?”

I looked up coldly into his glistening eyes, wondering how he could possibly think something as serious as this was funny.

“Your mom, was she a Christian?”

“Yes,” I hissed, burying my head back into my knees. “But what a waste of time that was.”

“Oh no, not at all. Your mom is in a happier place right now, Jana, where there is no suffering or pain...or cancer,” he said, reaching for my face and pushing some of my dark hair out of the way.

“Still. God could have saved her, right? Makes me think that there either isn't a God or He's not as great as you all make Him out to be,” I said bitterly.

“God's goodness is evident in all He has done and will do for us. I'm going to assume you've heard the story of Christ, right?”

“Yeah, and even that! How is that good? He made his own Son be tortured. That's horrible!” I exclaimed.

Pastor Davey smiled sadly. “It is sad that Christ had to endure so much, but the outcome is wonderful. Don't you see? He willingly went through all of the pain and suffering so that we wouldn't have to—so that, someday, we could all live with Him in His kingdom as opposed to eternal suffering in hell. God gave us a gift, freely, a gift that surpasses any gift you could ever receive. He didn't have to save us, you know. He could have perfectly well left us on our own because ultimately, the sinful lives that we lead separate us from Him, We deserve to go to hell, Jana.”

“So if He saved the world, why didn't He save my mom from cancer?” I asked, lowering my knees but crossing my arms as I peered at Pastor Davey.

“I can't tell you why, I can only have faith that God knows what He's doing. Maybe the impact of her death is working through the lives of others, like you,” he answered with a smile.

He was smiling so much that I was beginning to feel the unbearable need to sock him. He reminded me of one of my Barbie dolls—my Ken doll, actually, that I had when I was a little girl.

“Well, that won't be happening any time soon,” I mumbled.

“Let's talk about something else. What kind of things do you like to do?”

It was then that I realized that everything I once loved to do no longer had one seed of importance in my life. Singing, music, art, school, friends...it was all worthless to me now.

“Nothing.”

“That's not even possible. Everyone does something,” he said. Then, after a pause, “How old are you, Jana?”

“Seventeen. I'm turning eighteen next month,” I replied. “This was supposed to be my senior year, but I gave up on school.”

“That's too bad. What was your favorite subject in school?”

“Music,” I replied, my mouth working faster than my brain. If I mentioned music, then we'd have to talk about music, and music was the last thing in the world I wanted to talk about.

“I love music! Do you sing? Play an instrument? Just enjoy it?”

“I hate it!” I shouted, standing up and began to walk away. “I'm sorry I ever came in here!”

I couldn't see his face, but I figured Davey's face was just about as shocked as mine had been when I'd first arrived.

“Jana,” he said, jogging after me, “I'm sorry. I didn't know that it was such a painful subject for you.”

I whipped around on my heel, catching him off-guard.

“Who said anything about pain? What do you know about pain?”

“Probably not as much as you do,” he admitted. “But we have been in similar circumstances, if you think about it. Perhaps I can understand you better than you think.”

“No one understands! That's just it. No one even cares! There is no God, Pastor Davey, and I'm sorry to say, but you're wasting your time here.”

I turned and ran, ran as fast as I could until I was back at Aunt Laura's, racing up the stairs and into my bedroom where I laid on my bed and cried until I was completely drained.

A week went by. It was a long week, longer than most of my long ones, as I sat and thought about Pastor Davey and everything we'd talked about. As much as I tried to become more and more bitter at him and mentally criticize everything he'd said, there was something tugging at my heart. Something was trying its hardest to convince me that maybe what he'd been saying held some ounce of truth. I figured, if he'd gone through school about that sort of stuff, he had to know what he was talking about.

Still, I thought coldly, that didn't make it true.

Aunt Laura went out with a friend of hers, and I took another walk. I had been thinking deeply the whole time I'd been walking, entranced by the movement of my feet beneath me and the relaxing feeling of the sunlight, so when I looked up and found myself standing right in front of Pastor Davey's church, my heart pounded. His words stung my mind, that God didn't make mistakes, that everything happened for a reason.

Was there a reason why I was here? I wondered.

And that's when the same guilt-ridden emotion came over me, as I slowly climbed the steps up to the door. I hadn't felt guilt (or hardly any emotion except for anger, for that matter) since my mother's death, and last week, when I first entered the church, there was no mistaking its presence.

I couldn't explain why, but I went in. At first, my heart sank when I saw the empty church before me. That surprised me, because I couldn't remember wanting to see Pastor Davey. In fact, I remembered dreading seeing him if anything. The feeling of guilt was probably attributed to treating him like dirt the week before, so naturally, dread would be the right thing to feel.

I walked hesitantly down the aisle of the church and stopped when I had reached the altar. In front of me was a statue of Jesus, his arms spread as he hung on the cross. His eyes looked sadly down at me, and my heart immediately began to hurt...for Him. Was church supposed to make a person feel terrible?

“Why did you do it, Jesus?” I asked, and little did I realize, but this was the first actual prayer I had said all year. “Why did you die like that?”

“Because He loves you.”

I turned around, startled, finding none other than Pastor Davey standing before me with a stoic expression on his face. He wasn't wearing his pastor clothes like he had been last week, and this time, he was dressed in casual clothes, looking like every other college student. It hit me how young he really was. Maybe we weren't so different, I thought.

“I'm...I'm...”

“I know,” he said. “I've been thinking a lot about you, Jana, praying for you. I prayed that God would return you here so I could apologize for being so straightforward with you last week.”

“Apologize? I'm the one who should be apologizing. I don't know how to deal with people anymore. I haven't had an actual conversation with anyone since my mom died...until I met you. And I've been thinking a lot about what we talked about.”

“And have you come to any conclusions?”

“Not yet, but I figure God can't be good and bad, and He can't exist for you and not for me, so one of us has to be wrong. And,” I continued, “you went to school for this stuff, right? So you must know what you're talking about.”

“To some extent,” he said with a smile. He took a seat in the first pew again and I followed him to the seat where I had been last week. “You seem like a brilliant girl. You're a thinker.”

“No, I just have a lot of time on my hands. You asked me what I liked to do? I like to think,” I answered.

“I like to think, too. In fact, I have to think today about the sermon I'm going to be preaching on Sunday, which leads me to another question for you.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Would you like to come to church this Sunday? I would like to do a message on what we've been talking about. Of course,” he added, “if you don't feel you're ready for something like that, I'd love to keep meeting with you and talking until you do feel ready.”

“I don't know,” I said, looking down at my hands as I twisted them uncomfortably back and forth in my lap. “Maybe someday, but I'm still not sure that I'm ready for God again...or that He's ready for me.”

“He's always ready for you, Jana. He's never once left you, did you know that?”

“Then why has my life been so miserable? Why have I been so unhappy?” I asked. I inwardly scolded myself as I felt my eyes well up once again. The only person on this earth who had the power to make me cry was sitting right in front of me, and again, I had the urge to sock him.

“Jana, God never turned away from you. In fact, He's been standing right in front of you with open arms. You're walking away from Him, and it isn't until you walk into His arms that you will feel true happiness. The Bible tells us over and over again that unconditional joy is found in Christ and in His love.”

“Unconditional?” I asked. “Like, you mean to tell me that you're always happy?”

“Happiness and joy are different,” he explained. “Happiness is based on my circumstances. I may be sad about something like, for instance, when my dad died, but even through that time, I realized that whatever hard time that I'm going through, Christ can help me overcome that. And because of that, I can always have a smile on my face.”

“I think I forgot how to smile,” I said sadly. “I used to be so happy. Mom used to make me happy.”

“What did the two of you do the most? Me and my dad used to go fishing all the time, and while we were fishing, he'd talk to me about Christ and I'd ask him questions. He was a wise man. Now, every Saturday I go fishing, either by myself or with a close friend. At first it was painful, but as I kept up the tradition, the painful memories became happy ones. In fact, I laugh when I think of all the times my dad and I spent together.”

“How do you do that?” I asked in amazement. “I can't think about anything my mom and I did together, it hurts too much.”

“You said your mom made you happy, so focus on that happiness. What did your mom like to do?”

“She sang,” I said. “She had the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. She played just about every instrument too, but mostly the piano. She'd play for church every Sunday.” I closed my eyes for a moment and visualized Mom leading worship, and for the first time since she died, I found myself smiling, not wallowing in bitterness.

“See? It's a happy memory. Do you sing, Jana?”

“No...I can't. I mean, I haven't sang in so long. I just...I'm not ready for that.”

“Well then, will you at least give me your talented ears?” he joked, standing up and moving towards the piano. “I'd like to sing a song for you, ask you what you think of it. It's for the Sunday service and I think it will fit in nicely with the message.”

I nodded and prayed that I wouldn't break into tears the moment he began to play.

Pastor Davey, who I was beginning to realize was an attractive guy with light brown hair and blue eyes, sat down at the baby grand and started to play. He made it look effortless, a quality that reminded me of my mom.

“When the music fades, and all is stripped away, and I simply come...” he began, his tenor voice melodic and beautiful. I felt a feeling wash over me, a feeling I hadn't felt since I'd last heard my mother sing. And then I realized my earlier conclusion about church making me feel bad wasn't right at all. Church made me feel, yes, but that was just it: being here made me feel.

“Longing just to bring something that's of worth, that will bless your heart...” he continued, and I knew this song. I knew this song very well, it was one of Mom's favorites. She said that it was very real to her and had always hoped that I would pay attention to the words and not just the beautiful melody.

And then it happened, something that I had gave up hope of ever happening. It was out of my control as my mouth opened and I joined Pastor Davey in singing the song. As he began to sing the next line, I found a harmony that I'd sang with my mom, and he looked at me and smiled.

“I'll bring you more than a song, for a song in itself is not what You have required. You search much deeper within, through the way things appear. You're looking into my heart.”...”

We continued singing as I approached the piano, standing next to him as his fingers moved graciously over the ivory keys.

“I'm coming back to the heart of worship, and it's all about You, it's all about You Jesus.”

The voice that was coming from my mouth reminded me a bit of my mom's, just not as full, not quite as moving. Maybe she was right when she'd told me that God had taken some of her gift and passed it on to me. Maybe Pastor Davey was right, too. Maybe...maybe God was standing before me with open arms, just waiting for me to come back to Him.

The church doors opened, but Pastor Davey kept playing. A middle-aged woman walked in wearing scrubs. She had a delighted smile on her face as she took a seat a few pews in front of us. I continued singing with him until the end of the song, my face now a bit flushed from the unexpected listener as she sat, nodding approvingly before us.

“That was beautiful, Jonathon, absolutely beautiful. And who is this lovely young woman? She has an equally beautiful voice,” the woman said once we were finished.

“This is Jana, Mom. Jana, this is my mother,” Pastor Davey said as he stood up and went to embrace his mom.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly. Even though I was feeling much better about my new experiences within the church, socializing with someone, and everything else, I still wasn't used to it.

“Jana,” Pastor Davey's mom said with a smile (it must run in the family, I thought), “it's so nice to meet you. You will be joining Jonathon this Sunday, won't you? The two of you...your voices blend perfectly!”

If I had been blushing before, I must have been beet red now. My entire face was on fire and I wanted to shrink down into a corner where no one could see me.

“I don't know, Mom. It's up to Jana. She's certainly welcome, but maybe she'd like to wait until she's had a little more practice,” he said.

“Oh, this Sunday, next Sunday—it wouldn't matter. But I do know that the congregation would just love to hear the two of you sing that. Well, I have to on my way to work. I just stopped by to say hi,” she explained. “It was so nice to meet you.”

We said our goodbyes. When his mom had left, I turned and looked at him curiously.

“Your mom is a doctor?” I asked.

“Yeah, she works with cancer patients. She used to be a surgeon, but when Dad died, she decided to change her specialty. She's always told me that after she took care of my Dad while he was sick, God touched her heart to work with other people going through the same type of circumstance.”

“Wow, that's amazing,” I said.

“Yeah it is. She's an amazing woman,” he said with a smile that said he was obviously very proud of his mother.

“So, Sunday?” he asked.

“I don't know, I'll see. I should probably get home. My aunt might be looking for me, and considering I've threatened to run away a few times, that's not a good thing.”

“Well, by all means, you better go. Thank you for singing with me. God has truly given you a gift,” Jonathon said, walking me to the door. “I'll be praying for you, Jana. Always remember that God is waiting for you; all you have to do is go to Him.”

That had been the best day I'd had since Mom died, and the three days following weren't so bad either. I found myself opening the Bible that had grown dusty on my shelf. I read a story about a man named Paul. Actually, I read many stories about this guy, and it turns out, he probably went through worse stuff than I did. I was in awe that he could be happy—or joyful, rather—even though he was sitting in prison! Jonathon Davey reminded me a lot of Paul, I decided.

Sunday rolled around and I found myself jumping out of bed early that morning. I just told Aunt Laura I was going for a walk. I ran down the street and up the church steps, this routine seeming more familiar and more comfortable each time. I stepped into the sanctuary once again, but this time it was filled with people, and instead of feeling awkward and out of place, the instance warmth and smiles I received from the congregation was mesmerizing. It made my heart leap with...joy.

Jonathon stood just a few feet away, and as soon as he noticed me, he lit up.

“Jana!” he exclaimed, extending his hand. “I'm so glad to see you. You look wonderful,” he said, and it struck me that he'd probably got the impression I was a sloppy person from the usual clothes I wore, but today, I had dressed up and chose to wear a skirt and blouse.

“Thank you,” I said, blushing. “Are you still going to sing that song?” I asked.

“Of course. And you're always welcome to sing with me, you know that, right?”

“Well, I've been thinking for the past few days,” I said, and we both smiled, “and I think that I would like to. Mom would have wanted me to, I know that.”

“Good. Well, the service is about to start, would you like to sit with my mom?”

I nodded and he guided me to a pew about half-way back where the familiar, cheery face of Mrs. Davey sat. She was happy I had come, as well. I was happy I had come.

After some announcements, prayer, and other stuff that reminded me of going to church when I was little, Pastor Davey welcomed me up to sing with him. It had been so long since I had sang in front of an audience, I felt butterflies begin to twitter in my stomach, and my hands became cold and achy. I guess Pastor Davey noticed this, because he took a moment and whispered something in my ear, something that I remember even to this day.

He said, “God gives us all gifts, but He doesn't stop there. He gives us the opportunities to use these gifts too, and we have the choice whether or not we will. Come back to the heart of worship, Jana.”

I smiled at him, a genuine smile. I think the thought of Pastor Davey being an angel crossed my mind for a second, but I dismissed it right away, caught up by the beautiful music being made as we sang together.

“I'm coming back to the heart of worship and it's all about You, it's all about You, Jesus. I'm sorry, Lord, for the things I've made it, when it's all about You, it's all about You, Jesus.”

That was the day that I did come back to the heart of worship. I finally understood that being a Christian was more than prayer and church, more than singing a song for the people of the congregation. I devoted my life to Christ that day. The music had faded just a little too long, but it was during that time, that long year, that I had realized what it was like to live without God. What I had failed to realize, however, was that God had always been there; I was the one who needed to come back, not Him.

Four years later, after I'd completed my senior year of school and gone to Bible school and received a degree in music ministry, Pastor Jonathon Davey asked me to marry him. Mom had always said she'd thought I'd marry a man who's voice matched with mine perfectly, that God had created one special person with me and my voice in mind. Looks like God knew what He was doing, just like Jonathon had said all those years ago. We continued singing together, began to raise a family, and even started a hospital for cancer patients where they'd be offered the gospel of Christ.

It was a warm, summer day, early in the morning when my mother-in-law knocked on the door. I answered it and welcomed her in, smiling and offering her some coffee. She refused and flailed a letter before me.

“Jana, honey...you're never going to believe this! I just...I was looking through my things, through Richard's old things, I found...oh dear, Lord, how He works!” she exclaimed.

I laughed, laying my hands on her shoulders.

“Slow down, Mom. Please, sit down and talk to me.”

“Jana, what was your mother's name?” she asked me.

“Kara,” I replied curiously, “Kara Palmer.”

“Your mother!” she exclaimed then, throwing her hands in the air once more. “Your mother was my first patient ever.”

My heart began to beat faster as tears welled up in my eyes for no apparent reason. I was beginning to feel as overcome with emotion as my mother-in-law was.

“She wrote me a letter the day before she died, thanking me for my service to her. She was the reason why I stayed doing what I was doing! After Richard died and I felt God was calling me to work with cancer patients, I still had my doubts. But it was your mother who helped me overcome those doubts when she sent me this letter.”

We were both crying now as she handed me the old, stained paper. The simultaneous laughter and crying I did as I scanned the still familiar handwriting was probably hilarious to anyone watching me in that moment.

“Dearest Doctor Davey,” I read aloud, “your dedication and compassion has inspired me, even as I draw nearer to going home to be with my Savior. You've touched my heart in a way that you may never truly understand. Your stories of your husband and encouragement of what lies ahead for me has given me the strength I need to finish this life confidently. I pray that God will bless you for the work that you do, that you'll lead a long, productive life touching other lives like you have mine. I also pray that my only daughter will become aspire to be a woman like you, touching lives in the way that God will have her. The Lord be with you, Doctor. Thank you, Kara Palmer.”

“And Jana, you are touching lives! Just like your mother wanted! When you and Jon sing together, the hand of God moves among the audience.”

“And you touched my mother's life,” I said in between sobs, “and you've continued to work miracles in the lives of others, just like she wanted.”

It was funny in a way. Even though I had come to accept my mother's death over the years and grown to find happiness in the memories—as opposed to pain—I had never quite found a reason that satisfied me as to why she did die that day and did not undergo the healing hand of God. Ten years later, I found that reason, just like Jonathon said I would in his little church as we sat face to face, not once realizing that God had in store for us a greater plan than we could have ever imagined.

Jonathon walked into the room and we explained everything to him, and he too began to sob with joy. He embraced me and I whispered into his ear.

“You were right, Jon. You told me, long ago, that there was a reason for my mother's death, whatever that might be. We found that reason today. Because of her death, your mom has continued to work miracles with the mighty hand of God. And you and I, I'm doing exactly what my mom wanted me to do, Jon. If only she could be here today to see us, she would be so proud.”

He withdrew from the hug and smiled at me, a smile that I remembered once wanting to kill him for. Now, the same smile made me melt.

“She doesn't have to be here. She trusted that God would work through you, and He did, Jana, He really did.”

That evening, at service, Jonathon stood in front of the congregation of a church about two times bigger than the little one I'd first met him at. I was so proud of my husband as I watched him, so proud of how God had used him—used us. Through tears, he used the story of our life as a lesson, but this was the first time, out of the several times he'd told it, there was an ending to it, an answer to prayer.

He then welcomed me up to join him in singing a song, a song that never grew old for us even as we did.

“When the music fades, and all is stripped away, and I simply come...”

I looked around at our three children who joined with us. This was their favorite song, and when they sang, I saw the same thing I'd saw in my mother so many years ago as she sat at the piano in our house, playing and singing with me sitting by her side.

I look forward to the day when I can tell my mother, face to face, how much her music meant to me and how it blessed me. I look forward to the day when I can stand before my Lord and hear Him say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

It was always Mom's dream to sing in the heavenly choir. I bet she's the lead singer, praising Jesus with every note that leaves her mouth. I look forward to the day I can sing by her side once again.

THE END

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