The Storm


My Mom has been diagnosed with a lung disease. It’s either pulmonary hypertension, or something else. She went on full time oxygen last fall. Even with the oxygen, she struggles to keep her breath when she gets up to do anything.

By Christmas of last year, it had gotten worse. It’s a progressive disease, and it seems she’s slowly going downhill. Everything in me wants to stop it. I just feel she’s way too young, only 74, and I fully expected to have at least another decade with her. But God obviously has other plans. It was a cloud over Christmas. This sickness has stolen our joy.

None of us wanted to admit that something was seriously wrong. We just wanted her to get better, and go back to the way things were.We longed for carefree days when everyone crowded around the family holiday table, laughing and joking, enjoying my Mom’s wonderful home cooked food. It is really hard to watch your Mom suffer and struggle to get a breath, and to watch your Dad get depressed because the future looks pretty bleak. We haven’t given up, and won’t. We’re still visiting with Dr.’s, and are trying new medications. But it has been hard.

Thus, the subject of my poem, The Storm. It really did begin like a fog, very subtle at first. We just thought Mom needed some extra rest. But as it has progressed, and Dr. visits have been made, it’s clear that we will be weathering a storm. And despite the fact that we’re all scared, we are blessed. Blessed to know that Jesus will hold us tight through it all. And praise God, beyond this life, we have a glorious future awaiting us, because of what Jesus did for us.

Please keep my Mom in your prayers. Thanks.


It settled in almost unknown to us,
A gentle mist.
We thought it was a fog, and
Perhaps it would leave with morning’s sun.
It’s shading our everyday now,
Getting thicker as it grows.
No more denying its presence,
We long for sunny days once more.
Knowing the sun is behind the clouds,
We strive to keep a smile.
On the horizon the thunder is heard,
A storm is on its way.
We wonder how we’ll weather it,
But the Author wrote it all.
He’ll hold us in his precious arms,
Until daybreak on a distant shore,
Where fog is no more.
His glory will fill every darkness,
And daylight will never end.


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