In Edna's house were many mansions.
     At least, the people who lived there thought so.
     They were only modest rooms in a tiny nursing home in Wickenburg, Arizona. But when Edna prepared a place for you, rest assured, you were taken care of. For many resident's, Edna's House was a foyer to eternity, the final stop before the pearly gates, their last – and for some, their first – real home.
     Edna had worked the other end of this vale of tears too, delivering more than 300 babies in her career as a nurse. And the common denominator in caring for the very young, the very old, or the very sick is that it is very hard. All her life she poured herself out for others. It was a life that would embarrass most ministers. Her dedication would shame the busiest professional. And the care she provided for those who could not return her kindness... well, it disturbs some people to admit unselfishness of that caliber is even possible.
     She died in May and I was present during her final hours – which were mercifully free of suffering. Her death, like her life, was accented by unexpected graces.
     Edna's attitude would be understandable if life had handed her bounteous resources. Then she would have been just another codependent do-gooder, ladling out soup to the masses on weekends. Or, at best, a positive-thinking "emotion snob," wearing a smile that was untested by circumstances. But that wasn't Edna.
     She grew up poor – and so far out in the Montana countryside that when she needed an operation for a serious mastoid condition at age 14, the doctor required her to stay at the hospital for three months rather than risk trips back home.
     It was in that hospital that she was "discipled" in the school of caring for others by the small hospital's only nurse, a woman Edna described as the only Christian she had ever met who lived her faith 24 hours a day.
     As Edna recovered from her operation, she watched as that nurse slept only when her patients slept, ate only after they ate, and was on call night and day as she was needed – yet always in what seemed like a state of joy.
     When Edna felt better, she started helping the nurse, doing things for the patients. Soon she was bathing and feeding them, giving them their bedpans, changing the sheets and reading to them. A life-pattern was being established.
     A little over two years later, Edna moved to Minnesota and entered into an arranged marriage with a wealthy man more than twice her age, a fairly common practice among Norwegian immigrants at that time. Although she never liked him much, she made a home for him and their children without complaint. But before long, her husband's business went broke and he developed severe asthma. With borrowed money, they moved to Arizona and she went to work as a nurse at night – coupled with odd jobs during the day.
     Her husband's health improved, but he never recovered his self-respect. He drank heavily, and left for weeks at a time. They finally divorced.
     Her son treated her with teenaged contempt and the boy was eventually forced to join the Air Force in lieu of going to jail for run-ins with the law. She rarely heard from him thereafter, although she prayed for him regularly.
     For the next 30 years, she devoted herself to running Edna's House, a unique rest home that bore her stamp throughout.
     It was a large home, not an institution, consisting of a large central house where Edna lived with 11 patients who couldn't care for themselves. Other, more mobile patients lived in nine surrounding cottages and the whole campus was enclosed by an eight-foot oleander hedge. In exchange for room and board, one of the more energetic residents took care of the grounds, including the flowers, a small fountain, and fig, cedar, and palm trees.
     The home was filled with unexpected graces. Each bed-ridden patient had their own parakeet, so they could have "something beautiful, alive and singing," she explained. The ambulatory patients were encouraged to have pets, too. Edna took her own two dogs around to visit each patient in the morning and before going to sleep.
     Since she lived with the patients, the line between administrator and resident was non-existent. Her patients were her family, always poking their heads into the kitchen to see what she was cooking for dinner.
     Edna charged a mere $350 a month for full 24-hour-a-day care (compared to the going rate of up to $2,000 a month). Those who didn't have funds, insurance or Medicare coverage stayed for free, some for up to 10 years. Many times she gave up her own bed and slept on the couch. This was how Edna handled the nation's health-care crisis.
     In the last few years of her life, she suffered pain from arthritis in her hands, hips and knees. Yet she continued caring for her patients – from her wheelchair – still with graciousness and joy.
     By now you may have guessed our relationship. Edna was my mother. We had reconciled years before, after I became a believer. She had forgiven me for my rebellion and neglect, and we had become good friends. Dying of cancer, she was in a coma when my girlfriend Marie and I arrived to see her the last time. But – another unexpected grace – she came out of the coma and greeted me with a bear hug.
     Seeing her body ravaged by the cancer, I could barely speak.
     "Just relax, be at peace," I whispered. "Your warfare is over. In quietness and confidence you are saved. It is finished. In Jesus' name."
     She whispered, "Thank God, now I'm ready, now I can go."
     Then she slipped back into a coma and died.
     At her funeral, my good friend Howard Walker described her life with an analogy from sports: "Hank Aaron had more home-runs than any other baseball player in history. But the statistics show he holds another record – the most sacrifices. I think he now has competition in the heavenlies for the most sacrifices – Edna Anthony."
     The concordance tells us that the word grace means, "unmerited favor" and includes the idea of unexpectedness about what will happen next.
     The point is my mother didn't plan to lead a hard life of sacrifice and selflessness. If she had, she wouldn't have succeeded, and her life would have been filled with bitterness.
     Instead, she encountered God's grace unexpectedly at every turn, responded spontaneously and creatively in the moment, and is remembered as something "beautiful, alive, and singing" in the lives of those who knew her.
     Beautiful, alive and singing. That might be an even better definition of grace.
     And somehow, I won't be surprised if we find parakeets in those mansions Jesus talked about.
     At least if Edna has her way.