I can still hear it—a voice as lovely and lively as she was.

“Hi, Karen,” she’d say, when I answered one of her daily phone calls. She was always happy to hear my voice.

Today, I would do anything to hear hers.

Mom’s voice was magical, almost musical, her Norwegian accent nearly as strong when she passed on August 28, 2020, as it was when she moved to the US in 1965. That’s when she crossed the Atlantic to marry our dad, Gjert Hovland, who had immigrated to the States a decade earlier.

Five years have passed since Mom’s spirit slipped from her body to her much-anticipated Heavenly home, the one referenced in her favorite Bible verse, John 14: 2.

“In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”

Sigrun Hovland had no doubt Jesus prepared a place for her, and she was looking forward to her eternal residence—and rest. She was tired in body and mind, but mighty in faith.

A Lifetime of Care

A registered nurse, Mom worked in the psychiatric unit at a hospital on the edge of downtown Minneapolis. She served her patients with a huge heart, recognizing the plight of the mentally ill and addicted, at a time when these conditions were especially rife with stigma.

While she tended to the vulnerable at work, she also did her best to steer her family toward physical, mental, and spiritual well-being. Not always easy for a woman who, herself, struggled with depression.

A Lifetime of Faith

For as long as I can remember, Mom got deep in the Bible, reading it every morning after enjoying breakfast with strong, Norwegian coffee and the Minneapolis StarTribune, delivered daily to her doorstep.

There’s no telling how many times she made her way through that book, consuming every word from Genesis through Revelation.

Then she’d pray, talking to God in her native language as if he were a dear friend and confidante—someone she could see, feel, and fold into.

“Kjaere Gud,” she’d begin. “Dear God.”

When we recite the Apostle’s Creed at St. Mark’s Lutheran Church in Huntsville, I don’t read the words in English. Instead, I whisper the Norwegian version, her voice, clear as day, saying it with me.

“Jeg tror på Jesus Kristus, Guds enbårne Sønn, vår Herre…

Mom was a woman who walked the walk (for the most part; she was human, after all) and spoke with conviction.

She was the Christian who strived to live like Jesus. She grew frustrated when people plucked out verses to support their personal or political views, often at the expense of commands for compassion, humanity, grace, and love.

Her Steady Support

When I called her from Nashville in 2002 to tell her I had checked myself into a treatment center, she said, “I’m so glad.”

It wasn’t just her words, but the love, relief, and gratitude pouring through her voice, washing over me like a giant, long-distance hug. She was in Norway visiting family at the time, but she might as well have been with me at Cumberland Heights, holding my hand.

Generational Faith

The God she and our Dad invited into our home before we were born was the same God I came to know as I got older. The One who has stayed with me, given me faith and hope, even in my darkest days.

Faith may have been one of the greatest gifts our parents gave me. Some people may question why I believe (why anyone believes!). Sometimes the whole dying-on-the-cross and rising-on-the-third-day thing seems a little far-fetched to me, too.

But when you feel a strength, a love, a forgiveness, a resilience, a force, and a grace that is so much greater than you, and you connect to that source… I guess that’s faith.

Channeling her Spirit; Preserving her Voice

Five years after she passed, the grief has softened. Today, I just miss her. I miss her presence. Her love. Her support.

Her voice.

The voice that comforted and uplifted me, whether I was five, 15, 25, or 50. As a young girl, and later, as a parent myself. The voice I could count on in times of chaos or calm. In sadness or joy.

When my faith was strong or cracked.

I never really read the Bible (so many words!), but when her eyesight failed, I read it aloud to her. Two days before she died, she was in bed beside me. I thought she had fallen asleep so I stopped reading.

“I’m awake,” she said, mustering all her might, prodding me to continue.

This year, my friend Lisa invited me to join a Year in the Bible study. I wasn’t gung-ho, but committed. Another gift!

I find myself going through the readings in bed some mornings, my Norwegian-strong coffee in hand. I can feel her beside me, soaking in every word.

The voice that guided me on earth for 51 years still echoes.

I hope her voice lives on through mine, and that my daughters, now grown, might hear it, too.