We’ve spent the last week in the ICU with my newly acquired mother-in-law—“Grammy,” as she’s known to her tribe.
It’s been one of those weeks that feels both heavy and holy. As the newest member of this family, I’ve found myself standing slightly on the outskirts, quieter than I usually am—watching as my husband, his four siblings, and their spouses rally protectively and lovingly around her hospital bed. Most of them have been together since high school. The others for what feels like forever. There’s a rhythm and closeness between them, and I’m watching it all unfold as I am being slowly folded in.
At one point, it was just me and Grammy alone in the room. Her voice was soft but clear when she said, “I will be ok.”
And I didn’t know if it was a statement or a question—but I said “Yes.”
Confidently.
Selfishly.
Then added, “God isn’t ready for you yet.”
And, “I just got here. I’m not ready. I need some more memories with you.”
When the nurse came in and casually mentioned her grandchildren, Grammy perked up. The nurse said, “I’ve got seven.” I turned to Grammy and said, “You have…”
Without hesitation, Grammy said, “Thirteen.”
She included my two girls in her count. Without skipping a beat.
That’s family.
Later, Joe and I spent the night by her side—sharing the world’s smallest recliner, skipping showers, doing our best to sleep while wrapped around each other and the sounds of beeping monitors. He kept saying thank you. He kept saying he was sorry.
But all I could think was how blessed I am.
Because this? This is the mission field too.
It may not look like a jungle or a tent or bridge blueprints scrawled on a dry erase board. But the mission field is anywhere we get to love like Jesus. Sometimes that’s holding the hand of someone who’s scared. Sometimes that’s letting someone cry into your shoulder in a waiting room, or being silent as your husband’s mind wanders. Sometimes it’s showing up, staying put, and just being there.
I started a group text thread separate from Joe to keep my friends, our children, and our people updated on Grammy’s condition. Every day, the blessings, the questions, the check-ins, and the prayers pour in for our lil Mama C. Every text reminds me—community isn’t always blood. Family is wide and wild and sacred and sometimes stitched together in unexpected ways.
And in the quiet moments of this hospital week, my mind has repeatedly wandered back to Panama—to our jungle family, to the villagers we’re walking alongside, to the dangerous river we’re fighting to bridge. Suddenly, I feel a new kind of fire in me. A Holy urgency. Because the idea of not finishing that bridge this season—of possibly losing someone else to that water—shakes me to my core.
Family is everywhere. And it all matters.
At one point, Grammy looked at me and said, “I cannot leave them. They have been through too much. They’ve already lost their daddy—they cannot lose me too. I can’t do that to them.”
That kind of love—selfless, sacrificial, fiercely others-first—is what should lead us all. Her words lit something in me. Because we cannot let our Panamanian family “lose us” either. We’ve raised hopes, shared God’s love, improved lives, and helped ignite motivation in an entire region. With God’s strength and provision, we will not stop until the bridge is finished.
For now, please keep Grammy in your prayers.
