Reflections on the anniversary of Ron’s homegoing
“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”
—John 13:34–35
As the anniversary of Ron’s passing approaches, I find myself reflecting on this sacred moment—one filled with sorrow, yes, but also with a surprising measure of comfort. I share it again in hope that it offers the same comfort to someone else.
The Call
The phone rings at 6 p.m. on Sunday evening, the screen flashing the number for the medical examiner’s office. The two older kids have gone home with their partners. Allen has taken over the computer in my office. I am sitting in the living room, sipping tea and trying not to look at Ron's empty chair.
I pick up.
“Hello?”
“This is Jenny,” says the voice on the line. “From last night.”
I inhale sharply. The images and sounds replay in my brain: EMTs. Flashing lights. Ambulance. Police. Hurried phone calls. Panicked children.
“I wanted to tell you we’ve ruled your husband’s death as natural causes—cardiac arrest. He simply fell asleep, and his heart stopped. He would have felt no pain. No warning.”
I let my breath out slowly. “Thank you,” I say. “It helps us to know that.”
There is a pause on the other end of the line. I take a sip of tea, now gone cold. My relationship with this young woman will be brief, based only upon this heart-rending loss. I don’t know anything about her faith, but I say it anyway.
“It helps us to know that Ron fell asleep, and when he woke up, he saw God.”
A Quiet Witness
Jenny doesn’t respond right away. I wait. Years of standing in ERs and trauma wards have taught me patience.
“You know,” she says quietly, “this job is pretty sad. I see a lot of the same thing, day after day. And the families I meet kind of blend together. But…” I think I hear her voice catch, “I’m going to remember your family.”
I manage a soft laugh. “Well, we’re pretty memorable,” I say, thinking of how my tall children—most over six feet—had towered over the petite woman who came to examine Ron.
“You are,” she agrees. I can almost hear her smile. “Because your family showed me something I seldom see in this job. Love.”
“Your family showed me something I seldom see in this job. Love.”
The Gospel in a Hospital Room
Love. It hasn’t always been easy. There were too many surgeries. Too many hospitalizations. Too many pieces of Ron chipped away from us over the last nineteen years. Responsibilities that once belonged to him fell on me. And those final two years, when Ron needed help with everything, were especially grueling.
To the outside world, it may have looked like Ron’s later life held little worth.
But the world would be wrong.
Every time Ron was hospitalized, we were given a chance to demonstrate our faith. Not a single surgery, infection, or treatment happened without prayer for doctors and nurses, without hymns and Scripture filling his room. There were cards from my students, holiday decorations, visits from our children—and as much love as we could pack into a ten-by-ten foot space.
“Go and make disciples of all nations… teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.” —Matthew 28:19–20
When I became a believer at the tender age of fourteen, I wondered if I would have the courage to go to foreign places as a missionary. I didn’t know then that one of the most foreign and fear-filled places on earth is a hospital. Yet that became our mission field.
Seeds in the Field
“When I was examining your husband,” Jenny continues, “I could see he’d been well cared for. He was clean, no bruises, no sores. It was obvious he had excellent care. But even more than that—it was what I heard from you and your children in the kitchen.”
There’s a pause.
“Too often I hear people arguing after someone dies—blaming each other, fighting over possessions. But you were telling stories. Crying, yes. But laughing too. You were sharing good memories.”
Her voice softens. “He was someone I wish I had known.”
I’m touched by her words. I choose mine carefully. “We know Ron is in Heaven,” I say. “We have faith that his struggle is over and he is with God.”
“It was nice to see that kind of faith,” she replies. “And I just wanted to tell you… your husband and your family gave me something to think about.”
We talk a few more minutes. She says I can call if I have questions about Ron’s death. I know I won’t. Jenny’s entrance into our lives has been brief, but I believe she is richer for it.
Even in Goodbye
As I hang up, flashes of the many hospital rooms Ron inhabited come to mind. I realize: we planted seeds there. It wasn’t the mission field I would have chosen, but it was the one we were given—and we preached the gospel the best way we knew how.
“Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.” —Mark 16:15
I walk to the kitchen to warm my tea, pausing by the chair where Ron so recently sat—the chair where he died.
I give it a little pat and smile.
Even in his final moments, Ron bore witness to a life well lived—a life of quiet courage, of deep love, and of faith that reached beyond words.
Ronald Allen Cobourn 1951-2019
In the six years since Ron relocated to Heaven, his life and his love have continued to influence others. It is a legacy we should all strive to leave.
A beautiful post, Linda! Not a week goes by without me thinking of special people in heaven who taught me kindness and compassion in life and whose memory now encourages me to take the higher road in all things.