In February of 2019, I sat beside my wife Sherrill as her breathing became shallow and quiet.
She had fought melanoma for nearly two. More than a dozen surgeries. Targeted brain treatments. Scans that kept bringing news we didn’t want to hear. It spread to her lungs. It spread to her brain. One doctor told us he had never seen it move so quickly.
What made it even harder was this: just five months earlier, we believed she had beaten it. We had celebrated. We had exhaled. We thought we were stepping back into normal life.
And then everything changed again.
By that final weekend, we knew we were near the end.
The night before she passed was our oldest daughter’s winter formal.
Sherrill was already in the hospital, exhausted from treatments that had taken her strength — and her hair. But all day Saturday she kept saying one thing:
“Make sure I have my stocking hat on.”
She wanted to look like Mom when her daughter walked in.
That night our daughter came to the hospital in her dress before heading to the dance. Sherrill stayed awake for her. I truly believe the Holy Spirit sustained her for that moment. She saw her. She smiled. She gave her the best hug she could. And she watched her leave for one of those milestone nights.
About twelve hours later, she slipped into a coma.
The room was incredibly still. I could hear her mom's muffled cries down the hallway. A few days earlier, her dad had brought her hot McDonald’s French fries because she loved them. Those small, ordinary acts of love somehow felt enormous in that space.
She lay in her hospital bed, and I sat right beside her, holding her hand, just saying, “I love you.” Over and over.
Our marriage wasn’t a fairy tale. We had ordinary struggles. We disappointed each other at times. We sometimes lived out our love imperfectly. But it was a partnership. A chosen love. Built day by day.
And in that moment, none of the small stuff mattered.
What surprised me most was what I felt.
There was grief — deep grief. I was losing my wife. Our kids were losing their mom. But underneath the sorrow was something steady. A calm I can’t fully explain.
What I saw on her face was peace. Even joy.
It felt like the presence of God filled that room. Almost like heaven was close.
That evening, I wrote a social media post. It’s still one of the most raw things I’ve ever shared publicly. I typed through tears about the joy on her face… about the overwhelming comfort in my heart… about how it felt like the Spirit of the living God was preparing to bring her home.
I grew up in a Christian home. I didn’t have a dramatic story of rebellion and rescue.
But those final hours became my testimony.
I have never experienced the peace and joy of Jesus so powerfully.
The Bible talks about a peace that passes understanding. I always believed that was true. But that weekend, I lived it.
Peace didn’t remove the pain. It didn’t make the goodbye easy.
But it steadied us.
There was grief because we would miss her deeply. And there was a celebration because we knew what she was about to experience. Somehow, both were present at the same time.
If you are walking through something heavy right now — especially if you thought the worst was behind you — I want you to know this:
God is not distant in those rooms.
He is present.
And sometimes, when you least expect it, He gives a calm that makes no earthly sense.
I saw it.
I felt it.
And I will never forget it.
Scott Michaels is a husband, dad, and follower of Jesus who has learned that faith often becomes clearest in life’s hardest moments. He shares honestly about grief, hope, and the steady presence of God in ordinary life. He serves as the General Manager at Hope 107.9 and AM 790 KWIL.
