One day I asked Katie about the ever-present Ace bandage around Helen’s left arm. Her answer was the last thing I expected: "She’s in remission from breast cancer." I couldn’t believe it. She seemed so healthy, so vibrant, so alive, and so at peace.
After recovering from the initial surprise of Helen’s health situation, I succumbed to the complacency common to a self-absorbed teenager. Katie and I graduated, and we all went our separate ways. A year later I received news that Helen had died from breast cancer. I was devastated, and I determined to attend her funeral. At her memorial service, there was a modest display set up to honor her life. On a table toward the front of the sanctuary was a picture of Helen, and next to it, her Bible. I have yet to see another Bible in such a sorry condition. To say that it was well used is an understatement. The thing was trashed. The leather cover was faded and discolored, the edges bent completely over the binding. The pages were creased and folded from a lifetime of use. Helen had accomplished a difficult feat: She had worn out a Bible.
And yet it was the most beautiful Bible I had ever seen. Helen had invested hours pouring over the words of God. Her strength, graciousness, gentleness, and wisdom took on new significance because I saw them as reflections from her heavenly Father. She hadn’t kept the Scriptures at a distance, content to showcase them in pristine condition. She read them, absorbed them, used them, taught them, and lived them.
Helen’s Bible was also a reflection of her life. Bruised and worn-out, she lived her life to serve and teach others. Her cover may have been a little faded, but her pages of wisdom were eagerly thumbed through time and time again. She was a woman who had undergone the painful process of becoming Real.
Whenever I worry about the pain I have faced or will face as a mother, I think of Helen’s Bible and the godly example she still is for me. I can’t imagine the pain she must have felt when she said goodbye to her husband and children. It hurts to let someone you love go. It hurts to grow. It hurts to become Real. It hurts to be a mom.
The Problem of Pain
George MacDonald once wrote, "The Son of God suffered unto the death, not that men might not suffer, but that their sufferings might be like His."10 Whether you gave birth to your child with an epidural or without, whether you adopted a child or gained a child through marriage, the common denominator of all moms is pain – lots of it. Physical, social, spiritual, emotional, even mental. In fact, parenting can be described as one long succession of painful experiences – from labor to summer slivers to teaching them how to ride a bike to their first heartbreak to dropping them off at college.
