A View of Trees and Death

A story of when my mom called me a tree

Apr 01, 2025

Five months ago today, my mom exhaled one final time and opened her eyes to see Jesus face to face. I still can’t believe she’s not here, on this side of heaven, ready to text me or chat on the phone. I can’t tell her how well my vintage shop, This Rooted Life Co, is doing, or that our youngest, Lindsey, made it to Navy boot camp, or how big my grandson, Henry, is getting.

The void left by her absence is deafening.

Even so, I’m reflecting not on the moment she left us but on the many moments we shared before that final one. I’ve quietly held each treasured moment, but perhaps now is the time to share some of those gifts to encourage others on their journey.

When it began

Mom was first diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in 2018, just a few short months after my husband, his kids, and I moved from the Chicago area to Boston, a thousand miles away. Mom fought valiantly those first 18 months. She endured pokes and chemo and puking and other bodily responses. I did my best to go back and forth between our two homes and attended her follow-up appointment after her final treatment.

We learned what was first described as a manageable, slow-growing cancer mutated into something called triple-hit lymphoma. This cancer was aggressive and terminal; the chemo did little to help hold it at bay. Mom’s days suddenly appeared much shorter in number.

By God’s grace and sovereignty, Mom defied her doctor’s expectations and fought this beast for over six years. During that time, we were given a short window to say goodbye to Mom on three separate occasions. Each time, our family pulled together and prepared our hearts for her death. And each time the calendar turned its page, Mom pressed on.

Those days weren’t without trial, hardship, pain, and more suffering than a person should endure. But I believe God’s Word is true when He says He alone sets the number of our days (Psalm 139:16), and Mom’s weren’t over yet.

Then, 2024 began, and Mom’s pain increased. A scheduled scan revealed the beast had grown. None of us were prepared for the news the biopsy revealed: the beast brought a cousin —colon cancer that metastasized to her liver. After an initial attempt at treatment, Mom and Dad chose her quality of life over her quantity and the treatment ended.

In fact, it all ended. No more doctor visits or pokes and prods. No more blood draws or scans or poison seeking to destroy its prey. Her decision allowed her to enjoy her days the way she chose.

Maybe that’s why she was so alert in what we now see as her final weeks, unlike what the hospice team initially told us to expect, almost as if she wanted every possible moment with us.

Like watching her grandson marry his love. Or wishing her great-grandson a happy 4th birthday when she initially wasn’t sure she’d get to meet him at all. Or whispered moments with Dad, her husband of 60 years. Or the tender moments with me.

Like the one when she called me a tree.

The day she called me a tree

Yes, that is the moment I think about now. At the time, I wasn’t sure how to take it. Mom was alert enough that we didn’t realize death was so near. I sat next to her as she rested in the hospital bed set up in their room when she looked at me and laughed. Self-consciously, I asked what she was laughing at —I likely needed a shower, but we all probably did. She said she saw something when she looked at me but didn’t want me to be offended. Sighing, I asked what she saw. Let’s just say my physical appearance hadn’t been much of a priority lately.

"A tree,” she replied. “When I look at you, I see a tree.”

My heart dropped. Not exactly what I wanted to be called by my mom, the woman who continued to file her nails until the day before she died, who always “put her lips on” and made sure her hair was just right. I didn’t fit her expectations and would rather read a book than paint my nails.

I paused, chuckled alongside her, and listened. I try to do that when something (or even someone) pokes at me.

“It’s not bad,” Mom continued. “It’s supposed to be good. A compliment.”

Is the vision of a sturdy trunk a compliment? Doubtful, I exhaled and whispered a prayer. “What does she mean, Lord?”

“…and provide for those who grieve in Zion —to bestow on them a crown of beauty for ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise, instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor (Isaiah 61:3).”

The veil fluttered with her words. I see that now: those whispers between heaven and earth, the anticipation of Mom’s going home, of being welcomed with arms open wide—by her mom, by my sweet Emma, by Jesus.

What if God allowed her to see something I struggle to see myself? That maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t a moment of calling me out but spurring me on, of naming what is true.

What if something hovers between what we see and what lies just beyond? I did sense it then. This morning I read the words I wrote in my journal during Mom’s final days.

10.08.2024

“I wonder if she’s starting to slip away even more. Are those the tears I see? Does she not see You, Lord? Wait —she does. She prayed about her family being able to let her go. That she is just so weary. That she wants to go home.”

10.14.2024

“Mom’s dying feels like an intense spiritual battle, especially as I bear witness to Mom interceding for us even as she lay dying. So, to be like her I pray your peace would reign in our families and our eyes would be open to Your truth.”

10.15.2024

“I think the moment of Mom’s final breath is drawing nearer. I don’t know why I feel that, but I do. Something is shifting; it’s feeling different in the air, around Mom, in Mom, and just beyond.”

Share This Rooted Life Co

Something was happening, and if I could sense it, could Mom? Did she see beyond the veil that separates us now? Did she hear truth spoken in those quiet moments she lay still?

A gift in the naming

What if stories like the angel meeting Gideon and calling him out were true?

“The angel of the Lord came and sat down under the oak in Ophrah that belonged to Joash the Abiezrite, where his son Gideon was threshing wheat in a winepress to keep it from the Midianites. When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, “The Lord is with you, mighty warrior.” Judges 6:11-12

Gideon hid in a pit from Israel’s enemies. Instead of caring for the wheat in the usual way, he hid below because he was afraid. Yet, when the angel of the Lord spoke with Gideon, he greeted Gideon with God’s view of him —“mighty warrior.” And when we read the rest of Gideon’s story, we see that’s what he becomes —a mighty warrior who, by God’s power, defeated the Midianites with a small and unlikely army (Judges 7).

God declared Gideon’s true identity before Gideon realized it for himself. Through God’s naming, Gideon stepped forward in faith, obeying God even when the request seemed odd (lapping water, anyone?).

Whose to say being a tree —an oak of righteousness—isn’t mine? Or yours? Not because of anything we do but because of what He’s done. What I haven’t shared is that this has been a prayer of mine ever since grief first knocked on my door when my youngest daughter, Emma, died from injuries sustained in a fire that destroyed our home.

I prayed to stand firm despite the winds that threatened to knock me over.

I prayed to endure, despite the fire that almost incinerated everything.

I prayed for peace, despite the chaos of brokenness that sliced me.

I prayed for healing, despite the shattering impact of burying a child.

I prayed for hope, always hope, despite the darkness of despair that followed me for so long.

I prayed I’d be like a tree “planted along the riverbank, bearing fruit each season. Their leaves never wither (Psalm 1:3, NLT).” “A tree planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit (Jeremiah 17:8, NLT).”

Roots and growth

An oak tree grows slowly, often taking several decades to reach maturity. In their early years, oaks invest much of their energy in developing a strong root system built before significant above-ground growth can occur. What happens in the darkness of the earth goes quietly unseen but is crucial for the tree’s survival and ability to withstand not only the storms that swirl around them but endure time.

What if my mom’s naming was God answering my prayer, a whisper between the veil that revealed the work He’s been doing in the darkness of grief, allowing my roots to dig deep and wide, enabling me to endure? What if God’s hand in your life doesn’t look like you expect, either?

11.02.2024

“Yesterday, at 4:45 pm, Mom took her final breath on earth and woke up in heaven —seeing Jesus face to face. It’s been more than 24 hours, and I miss her terribly. I want to write about all that happened, but I also don’t feel like I have any words to put in this paper. Honestly, Lord, I was hoping for some assurance, some action, even some sign that Mom saw you. Did Emma greet her? Her sister, Joyce? Gram? You? My heart is heavy thinking she’s no longer here. My heart rejoices that she no longer suffers but can finally rest. My faith clings to hope, knowing I will see her again. We knew this was coming, yet the sting is still real.”

Maybe I received the assurance I longed to receive before I realized I needed it. A few days before she died, my mom called me a tree, and it was one of the greatest gifts she gave me.

This Rooted Life Co