Discovering sabbath in my mother’s hospice room
She was a staunch observer of sabbath. It took her death for me to appreciate why.
I had the first true sabbath of my adult life in my mother’s hospice room.
I’d tussled with her over busyness for many years. She had staunchly kept the sabbath since she was a young girl, when she learned well that the hours of the Lord’s day were holy. It was a day different from the others—sacred time for ceasing from any labor and worldly activity one might do six days of the week. Only church, acts of service, family visits, and resting were permitted.
She practiced sabbath for herself and held hallowed space for me, too. Growing up, Mom ensured whatever apartment we rented was within walking distance of a Baptist Church, such that come hell or high water, we’d be there anytime the doors were open. Church gave her life. She was so buoyed by a mother-daughter sabbath spent studying, praying, singing, fellowshiping, and napping that she could continue carrying the heavy loads of poverty and single parenthood. We spent decades keeping holy days together.
