Until You Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Part One: The Day Everything Changed

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

Psalm 23:4 (KJV)

There are moments in life that divide time into before and after. Before the phone call. Before the diagnosis. Before life changes in ways you never imagined. Looking back, I now realize that an ordinary afternoon in the spring of 2025 marked the beginning of a journey our family never expected to walk.

Like many daughters, I had always believed my mother would be the one caring for me, her middle child. I had watched her love fiercely, forgive freely, and place her family before herself. She was one of the most forgiving people I had ever known, extending grace even when it was not deserved. I never imagined there would come a day when I would have to help carry her through the hardest season of her life.

About two weeks before Mother's Day, my mother called to tell me she was experiencing severe stomach pain and nausea. Because she had gone out to dinner with friends a few days earlier, I asked whether something she had eaten might have upset her stomach.

She thought so too. But as the evening wore on, the cramping grew more intense. Like many families, we hoped it was nothing more than a stomach virus or food poisoning that would soon pass.

A short while later, my younger sister called to say our mother was still in significant pain. I called Mom immediately. The moment I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong.

"I'm on my way," I told her. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

On the drive, she gently asked whether I could take her to an urgent care center instead. I looked at the woman I had loved and respected all my life and answered with a firmness that surprised even me.

"No," I said. "We are going to the emergency room."

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to the emergency entrance and helped her out of the car. I still believed we were dealing with a severe stomach virus or food poisoning. Neither of us had any idea that our lives were about to change forever. In the waiting room, I watched my mother lean forward as wave after wave of pain came over her. My youngest sister arrived soon afterward and sat quietly beside us. A woman seated a few chairs away realized we were family and gently asked whether everything was all right. It was a small act of kindness at the beginning of one of the longest nights of our lives.

By the grace of God, one of my cousins was on duty at the hospital that evening. He helped ensure my mother was admitted promptly for evaluation. During the examination and scans, the doctors found a large mass in her colon. In an instant, what we had assumed was a stomach illness became something far more serious.

My mother was admitted that same evening.

The next morning, the surgeon entered her room and delivered the news none of us was prepared to hear: my mother had colon cancer.

She explained that surgery was necessary to remove the tumor. Depending on what the surgical team found, a second procedure might also be needed. An hour or two later, she returned with greater urgency. The operation could not wait.

Everything changed

News traveled quickly, and family members and close friends began arriving at the hospital. The waiting room became a sanctuary filled with whispered prayers, quiet conversations, anxious tears, Scripture, and hope. Phones rang. We embraced one another. Some prayed aloud, while others silently pleaded with God for mercy.

The emergency surgery was expected to last about six hours. There are moments when words fail you. This was one of them.

"Cover her, Lord," I prayed. "Strengthen the hands of the surgical team, and lead my mom safely through this operation."

We gathered in the waiting room.

The hours seemed endless.

We prayed. We encouraged one another. We cried. Most of all, we hoped.

I prayed that the surgeon would be able to remove every trace of the tumor. I prayed that, one day, the diagnosis would become nothing more than a painful memory.

What we did not yet understand was that our walk through the valley had already begun.

Pearls of the Valley

After two weeks, my mother was discharged from the hospital. My younger sister welcomed her into her home to continue recovering, while my other sister and I remained beside them every step of the way. We were grateful beyond words. The surgeon believed the tumor had been removed, and although twelve weeks of chemotherapy still lay ahead, we left the hospital believing that healing was within reach. As I watched my mother walk out of the hospital, I thanked God for everything He had already carried us through: the fear of the unknown, the long hours waiting for news from surgery, and the quiet nights in the intensive care unit.

During those nights, He also gave me the strength to complete the final chapters of my PhD dissertation while sitting beside my mother's hospital bed. Looking back, I know neither of us could have made it through that season without His sustaining grace. People often say that life can change in a split second. I now know how true that is. One phone call. One drive to the emergency room. One conversation with a doctor. In a matter of hours, our family's story changed forever.

Those first weeks taught me that faith is not the belief that hard days will never come. Faith is trusting that God will be with us when they do.

At the time, we believed the hardest part of my mother's recovery was behind us. We celebrated each small victory, treasured every ordinary day, and thanked God for every answered prayer. We could not yet see how much farther the valley stretched.

Coming Next

Part Two: Ringing the Bell

We thought the surgery was our greatest hurdle. We were wrong.

The days ahead would bring chemotherapy, difficult conversations, and moments when God's presence became more real than ever before. Through it all, my mother continued to teach me what courage looks like, even on the hardest days.

Our story was far from over.

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 I hope you will join me for Part Two.

With gratitude,