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We had congregated in a large room of my home church, waiting for the rest of the mourners to be seated before we entered as a procession of grieving relatives.
It was the day I had been dreading more than any other – the day we buried my mom.
Just before we rose to shuffle toward the sanctuary, the pastor said, “Okay. It’s time to go. Let’s go in there and sing these songs with gusto. She would’ve wanted it that way.”
It sounded like a good idea, except for the swollen knot that had taken up residence in the back of my throat.
We filed into the church, down the long aisle that I had once walked as a bride on a much happier day.
Standing in the front row, the music began. The tears flowed, and the God of my mother, the God that she had passed on to me through her prayers and steadfast faith, was worshipped.
And much to my surprise, I sang.
I lifted my tear-stained face to the wooden cross that was mounted above, closed my blurred, tired eyes, and I sang:
“This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior, all the day long.”
May it be so.