The Honour Walk

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The Quiet Work of Grace in a Family Story

Earlier this year, we said goodbye to my wife’s mother.

On January 11th, we celebrated her ninety ninth birthday, with family and friends stopping by throughout the day to say hello. My father-in-law had passed away years earlier; we were in the room when he took his last breath, along with all of their living children and spouses. Mary’s mom, Susan, known as “Mrs. Elias” at the care home, was loved by everyone who cared for her. She passed away at 8 AM on January 27, 2026.

Although her memory was mostly gone near the end, her love for people had grown so strong that she became known as the “Staple of Maple,” Maple being the ward she lived in during those last years. Even just weeks before her passing, she was still helping move residents in their wheelchairs to various events in the facility. During the honour walk, where family walks out with their loved one as residents and staff line the hallways to pay their final respects, the family heard wonderful testimonies about her joy and kindness as she was taken from the home.

As I reflect on her life, her impact, and her relationship with Mary and me, I feel blessed and deeply thankful to have known her.

Our relationship was not always easy.
In the early years of our marriage, things were often very difficult. Letting go was hard for her. She was deeply concerned about our salvation and feared we were on the wrong path. The way this concern came out in her communication caused significant conflict and brought us close to a breaking point where our marriage could have collapsed.

Mary and I wanted to please and honour her parents, yet we also wanted to build our own family according to our convictions and interpretations of scripture. This tension created moments that were painful and confusing, moments I will not detail here out of respect for her family. Mom and Dad Elias would regularly stop by unannounced, often, it seemed, to try to straighten us out and bring us back to our German Mennonite traditions.

By then, we had left the Old Colony church Mary was raised in, as well as the Sommerfeld Mennonite church I grew up in. Mary had trimmed her hair, started wearing a wedding ring, set aside her traditional Mennonite head covering, or “dook,” and began wearing pants more regularly. In Old Colony culture, where her dad had been a pastor for decades, these were seen as outward signs of worldliness rather than Christian maturity.

During those years, we had many tearful visits. I remember one in particular when her dad quoted Scripture after Scripture, and I tried to respond by reading the passages in context. All the while, my mother in law sat there crying. Those sessions were agonizing for both us and her parents.

Even so, we kept coming together, understanding that their concerns were sincere. Over time, we learned to set boundaries and agreed to disagree on those difficult topics.

Early on, we made a decision to honour our parents to the best of our ability. Sometimes that meant holding our tongues when something hurt. We tried to teach our children that it was possible to disagree with their grandparents and still love and honour them. Mary learned to change the subject and show respect even when the words stung. I remember the time she was told that her 2-toned blonde hair made her look like a dog. Mary simply replied, “Some dogs are beautiful.” Every time we visited, usually every two weeks, sometimes stretching to four, we walked in, hugged them, and told them we loved them. And when we left, no matter how the evening had gone, we hugged them again, said “I love you,” and went home.

We did that for years.

Gradually, the conversations shifted. They became more positive. Mom grew increasingly affectionate when we arrived and when we left. The hurtful comments became less frequent. We chose to honour her in small ways too. Mary would remove her earrings during visits out of respect and dress more in line with her expectations, not out of fear but out of kindness.

Her parents showed love in tangible ways. Dad Elias became a partial mortgage holder on a home we could not have afforded on our own. It took us a few years to carry the title ourselves. When our business went through bankruptcy, they showed up with kindness and practical support, bringing food and trying to encourage us. Mary tells me of the time she was helping her mom with potted plants at her condo. They had walked to the dirt pile outside to fill the pots, and on the way back to the apartment her ninety year old mother playfully scolded her, saying it was not fair that she was not carrying anything.

When I reflect on Mary’s mom, I see a woman who loved Jesus, loved her family, and loved her church. She also battled anxiety and carried the heavy demands of being a pastor’s wife while managing a household and raising children. Mary and her siblings remember a no nonsense mother whose sense of humour peeked through now and then.

As the outsider who married into the family, I see a woman who was imperfectly perfected.

Her light grew brighter as she laid aside her drive for perfection and learned to trust Christ more deeply, something I want to do as well. As she grew older, long before dementia set in, there was more joy than sadness and more peace than hurt. That joy and peace stayed with her even as her memory faded. I am inspired by that. It brings hope to know that Christ can change us from the inside out as we submit ourselves to his perfection.

At her memorial service, one family member shared that after a visit years back, Mom called to apologize for something she had said. She told them in German, “I am trying not to share negative things anymore. I do not want to be like that anymore.” That is a powerful testimony to the work God was doing inside her. Reflecting back now we see the evidence in how our relationship changed with her at the time.

It also speaks to how children see their parents. We often hold their beliefs frozen in time. We remember a snapshot of their convictions from our formative years, yet we do not always see the ongoing work inside them or their transformation through Christ. And while some hearts grow colder over time, others, as in Mom Elias, become more aligned with Christ.

Mary and I have talked about what we will miss most: her hugs. Every time we visited, she would take both of our hands, look straight into our eyes with immense joy, and say, “I love you,” and “Thank you so much for coming.”

About a week before her birthday celebration, she began to decline. Soon after, she stopped eating and drinking as her body slowly shut down. It was difficult to watch her endure the pain as her organs began to fail.

A day before she passed, Mary and I were there with family. She had spoken very little in the previous week and a half. As Mary was leaving, she took her mother’s hands and said, “Schloppe gesundt,” followed by, “I love you.”

“Schloppe gesundt” is a Low German phrase meaning “sleep well.” It was something we said when leaving their home after a visit and taking our kids home to bed. It was always followed by, “I love you.”

Mary held her hands and said those words. And in one of the first and last moments of true clarity in her final days ,Mom responded, “Schloppe. Gesundt. I love you.”

I wish I had been in the room.

It was the closure Mary needed.

I share all this because in our current culture, many Christian couples and individuals have chosen to cancel their relationship with their parents, as though it is a privilege that can be revoked. I am not talking about situations of abuse. I am talking about hurtful words that flow out of our parents’ brokenness. This cancel mindset is costing families decades of relationship over moments in time.

I also share this to honour a woman who showed us that you never quit choosing to reflect Christ more. She showed us by allowing Christ to change her heart even at seventy, eighty, or ninety years old, so much so that as her memory faded, her joy and kindness grew. One nurse told us she liked to dance and sing. I laughed when I heard that, but I believe she certainly did so inside.

I am very thankful we did not consider the words of a friend early in our marriage who said they would not blame us if we never went back. Had we done that, we would have missed the privilege of knowing this amazing woman of God who increasingly showed Christian joy with each passing year. We never would have experienced her strong hugs and “I love you’s,” or her joy seeing our kids’ pictures or hearing stories about their funny adventures.

At her funeral, I shared that I saw her life as a supernova. She grew brighter as she grew older, and then stepped into eternity. I am grateful to have known her and to have witnessed her journey.

As I think about how to honour her, I keep returning to this story. If we had pushed her out of our lives when things were difficult, we would never have known how large her heart would become. We would have missed the moments of joy that now appear in our hearts and in our photos. We would have missed the giant hugs, the beaming smile, the “I love you’s,” and the light in her eyes. We would have missed the quiet transformation that God was shaping in her, and the transformation he was shaping in us as well.

Her life reminds me that relationships are rarely simple, but they are worth fighting for. They stretch us, humble us, and sometimes heal us in ways we do not expect. She showed her humanity early on, and we showed ours too. Yet grace kept drawing us back together, and Christ kept softening what was hard in all of us.

Her journey showed me that grace keeps shaping families long after the hard seasons have passed. When we choose honour, even in small ways, we make room for God to do what only he can do.