July 18, 2025—Jerry
I have a friend whose mother suffers from severe dementia. Being her caregiver is a loving but demanding task, as she can no longer care for herself. There was a time when she could manage her daily needs—eating, dressing, moving safely through the day—but that time has passed. Now the roles are reversed. The daughter, once nurtured by her mother, is now the one who must nurture and protect.
Even simple tasks—like sharing a meal or making it to the bathroom—have become daily challenges. Dementia does that. As mental clarity fades, the burden on the caregiver increases. It is exhausting, sacred work.
Fifty years ago, that mother painted a picture. Her daughter still remembers it clearly. On the painting were the words: “With the Lord, you can climb any mountain—one step at a time.” Little did she know how high the mountain would one day become.
That phrase—climbing a mountain—has often come to mind in my work as a hospice chaplain. I’ve thought about it often and shared it many times. It’s such a fitting picture of life.
When we’re young, we wander freely along the mountain’s lower trails. We have strength, energy, and the freedom to explore. The peak lies far off, and we hardly give it a thought.
But as we age, the steps grow steeper. Aches and pains slow us down. Diminished eyesight, failing hearing, and limited strength begin to take their toll. The heart still longs to explore, but the legs don’t move like they used to.
Then comes the final ascent: the reality of dying. I’ve seen it. By that point, you can’t carry much. Lesser hopes, ambitions, and attachments fall away. The climb becomes one of finding comfort… and peace. Saying goodbye to loved ones looms large. The summit draws near.
In the lower paths, steps were light and carefree. But now, every step requires effort. The slopes are steeper. The air is thinner. Boulders block the path. Crevices hide beneath the snow. Simply putting one foot in front of the other takes endurance—and grace.
But here’s the key: the mountain can only be climbed with the Lord.
As Psalm 23:4 says, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” The valley. The shadow. The climb. It’s all only bearable because He walks with us.
That’s why one of my most frequent prayers for hospice patients is this:
“Lord, walk with them on their journey.”
I’ve often wondered why the hardest part of the climb comes when we’re weakest. Why does God ask us to face such steep terrain when our strength is nearly gone? But our need all along life’s journey is to trust in Jesus. Trials have a way of energizing and building faith and directing our focus heavenward (James 1:2-4, 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:2). It is as Joni Eareckson Tada (paralyzed from her youth and now battling cancer) wrote: “Every sorrow we taste will one day prove to be the best possible thing that could have happened to us. We will thank God endlessly in Heaven for the trials He sent us here.”
I’ve never climbed a real mountain, but I have climbed the Astor Column in Astoria, Oregon. It’s 125 feet tall, with 164 winding steps to the top. The view is breathtaking—Astoria below, the Columbia River mouth, and the surrounding countryside in most every direction. But it takes work to get there.
The goal in mountain climbing is to reach the summit. And when you do, those final laborious steps give way to a grand view. So it is in the spiritual climb of life. The summit is not earthly but eternal. Paul wrote, “To depart and be with Christ… is very much better” (Philippians 1:23). He looked forward to it with joy.
At death, the eyes of faith will become the eyes of sight. “We shall see Him as He is” (1 John 3:2). Scripture says, “He will be marveled at among all who have believed” (2 Thessalonians 1:10). The apostles beheld His glory (John 1:14) and gave their lives to make Him known—most of them dying as martyrs. There are many beautiful things to behold on earth—but nothing will compare to the glory of the ascended Christ.
Scripture uses many analogies to describe the Christian life—a race to run, a fight to fight. But in all cases, a day will come when climbing, fighting, or running will cease. The arduous steps of the steep ascent will give way to a new home and a readied inheritance (2 Corinthians 5:1; 1 Peter 1:4). Jesus has prepared a place for us (John 14:3). And while there are aspects of that heavenly home that transcend our current understanding—things no eye has seen nor ear heard (1 Corinthians 2:9)—we can be sure it will far exceed all we could ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20).
Many of the things that have disturbed us most in this life will be absent in the next. And that’s good news I’ve often shared with hospice patients. There will be no more tears, death, mourning, crying, or pain (Revelation 21:4). There will be no more sin (2 Peter 3:13). The final, painful climb through this broken world will give way to eternal joy in the world to come. Jesus came to make that happen—and in His time, He will bring us safely home (2 Timothy 4:18).
And then, there will be a divine makeover. It’s too heartbreaking to watch the health of someone you love decline. Words fail to express the grief I feel watching Laura’s health fade. She’s been fighting this cancer battle for more than eight years. Each treatment—there have been six—has brought harsh side effects. It’s taken a tremendous toll. Though we’re grateful for the wonderful care she’s received, her body is worn out. She’s now on hospice, and day by day, she loses more strength. Her appetite has diminished. Pain increases. My heart is breaking. I can’t imagine life without her. And to return to that image again—if life is like climbing a mountain, Laura’s steps have become very, very hard.
I’m writing this because Laura has a story to tell. She’s been climbing this long mountain—this cancer journey—with the Lord. It’s not a path she chose or wanted. It has been long and difficult. A fragile spine. Chronic pain. Endless doctor visits. Treatment after treatment, each with its own heavy cost. But through it all, her faith has remained. She has trusted Jesus every step of the way. She’s faced this journey with courage and strength. I’m near tears as I write this. She has fought the good fight. She has kept the faith.
Now the summit is near—and a divine transformation awaits. Scripture says we can’t enter heaven just as we are: “Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God” (1 Corinthians 15:50). But God has provided for that, too: “When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’” (1 Corinthians 15:54).
I believe that’s one reason Scripture says, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Psalm 116:15). Because when a believer dies, God’s glory is clearly revealed—in His grace, love, power, and wisdom—as one of His saints finishes the journey home (Romans 8:37).
Philippians 3:21 puts it this way: “He will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself.”
Our lowly body—that’s the one we have now. I remember when Laura and I went for a jog on our first date. She’s always been committed to healthy living—eating well, avoiding bad habits, staying active. But cancer has worn her down. Her spine is fragile. Nerves misfire. She used to walk the dogs daily; now even walking through the house is hard. Her liver is failing. Her pain is constant. These final steps have come at a high cost.
But soon—in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye (1 Corinthians 15:52)—Jesus will give her a new body, one like His glorious body.
I remember listening, years ago, to a song by Joni Eareckson Tada about heaven. She has written, sung, and painted with heaven in view. Paralyzed from the shoulders down as a teenager, she has since walked her own difficult path—including a battle with cancer that she shares with Laura. In her reflections on heaven, Joni once wrote: “I still can hardly believe it. I, with shriveled, bent fingers, atrophied muscles, gnarled knees, and no feeling from the shoulders down, will one day have a new body, light, bright, and clothed in righteousness—powerful and dazzling… My assurance of heaven is so alive that I’ve been making dates with friends to do all sorts of fun things once we get our new bodies.”
There’s a passage that has meant so much to us from the beginning of this journey: “We were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead… On Him we have set our hope that He will deliver us again. You also must help us by prayer…” (2 Corinthians 1:8–11). We’ve been burdened beyond our strength, yet God has given more grace. We’ve despaired, but we’ve learned to rely on the God who raises the dead. You’ve been with us every step of this journey. Thank you for your continued prayers!
Looking back, we have much to be thankful for. God has been so faithful. He has provided excellent doctors, good insurance, and compassionate care. So many have prayed. So many have cared and in so many ways. It’d be impossible to recount all the acts of kindness shown over these past eight plus years! Through it all, God has been with us.
Laura is walking these final steps. She has climbed this steep mountain with Jesus—one step at a time. She’s done so with the same faith in Jesus, same selfless heart, and same determination I loved in her when we married nearly 42 years ago. My heart is breaking. But she is leaving behind a lasting legacy (Hebrews 11:4). Her life speaks volumes about the importance of trusting Jesus.
“With the Lord, you can climb any mountain—one step at a time.”