What does 'Jesus' mean?

Jesus

I was being asked to help to decide whether an operation was worth risking. I dug my butt deeper into the seat cushion.

I repeatedly asked myself what Mama would want to be done. What would she do if it was me, not her, faced with surgery or dying? I thought about Mama’s indomitable faith in Jesus, her unflappable, determined belief in the power of God to heal and resurrect life, finally deciding, as I sat there, that in the end my decision wouldn’t really matter. “She’s in God’s hands,” I answered my mother. Mama would always say those words when faced with an impossible problem or decision. Mama’s way of dealing with a problem was either to shift the weight of a decision onto the shoulders of God or accept her powerlessness in a matter.

“Mama will not survive surgery,” my mother said.

“Then why are you asking me what to do?”

“She would want you to be a part of the decision.”

I was cornered. I didn’t want any part of it. If my decision was the wrong one, I would have to live with it, along with all of the other mistakes I had made in life.

“I’ll go along with what you decide.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure.”


A flick of a switch turned a prayer vigil into a death watch. Mama’s feeding tube was removed. She was given a stronger dose of morphine. The morphine sedated her to the point that she was no longer conscious enough to open her eyes.

“She’s feeling less pain,” said a doctor. “Even though she is heavily sedated, she can hear the voices around her.”

My mother, worn down and tired out from having been at the hospital a day and a night, was sleeping in the visitor’s lounge. Minutes later, she came into the room. She walked over and stood next to me, looking down at Mama.

“How you doing?”

“Fine,” I answered.

I wiped Mama’s parched lips with a wet cloth. A sheet of sweat covered her forehead. The anxiety clamping down on my gut became too much for me to bear. I left the room. In my heart was the hope for a miracle. Mama would frequently point to the many miracles Jesus had performed, which was a corner- stone of her faith. Money, food and shelter were the by- products of never questioning or doubting Jesus. But she was a realist, too. Whenever she was sure something was meant to be, she accepted it and moved on. She wasn’t a worrier. If she
made a mistake, she would say that without mistakes she wouldn't need Jesus.

Suddenly, Mama’s frail body jerked back and forth, something we hadn’t seen before. Something imploded within her, something that was terrorizing her, goading her, fiercely pinning her to the bed, wrenching her eyes and inflicting excruciating pain. Tears streaked down her sweaty face, filling the corners of her gaping mouth. She, it seemed to me, was fighting something elusive in her semi-conscious state. Was it a nightmare, a memory, or was it death that she was struggling against? A thick, dark, brownish, murky liquid formed in the corners of her mouth. She gave out a loud, rumbling, gurgling sound, pushing more of the muddy liquid from her mouth. The ghastly sound rattled in her throat. I moved closer to her, sensing--but not wanting to believe--that she was dying before my eyes.