Of Elizabeth Catherine Wilson (nee Dodds) On Her Deathbed

My mother is now 91. And she is dying soon, in a matter of weeks. Nothing is wrong with her besides being old. Things are shutting down. She has wished this, going to be with the Lord, for decades. Not because life in our family is rotten and the escape of death the only hope, but for all the joy and blessing life has been for we Wilsons, it is "not worth comparing to the glory that is to be revealed."

While she is looking forward to an elevation beyond our knowledge, we will be left behind to elevate her memory. Her service to the Kingdom of God, her years of supporting my father as he served the Kingdom of God, and her guidance of we four, then whom we married, our offspring and the generation of great grandchildren (like rabbits) below them. She has run the race and is ready. She taught us to run it and we are ready for her to be done. She and Father taught us well that we are running "toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus." And as she dies, our belief and joy in what she taught invests our conversation.

I thought I would post the poem I wrote for her 7oth birthday party at which I threatened her with another 10 years of life. She felt it as a threat, spoke to me (her favorite child) sternly, but nonetheless proceeded to cruise through 21 more.

To his mother on her seventieth birthday

I've known her four and thirty years today
With my mem'ry faint in events mundane;
But still, like a history studied, stays
On times. I do remember things of fame—
Not `line on line' and `precept' unto death—
But those momentous, far from commonplace,
And will not accept any trivial breath
To darken my creation. A pale face,
Still set in British dour kindness, I have
Shining in my mind. Not because of good,
Though much, to others shown. I am a slave
To position, marveling at rank as would
Angels. On high they sang of her, I heard,
Sang to me, “Queen Elizabeth the Third”.

by Evan Wilson