There are moments in life that feel too sacred for words—holy ground moments where heaven leans close and the veil seems thin. I am living in one of those moments now as I walk beside my dear friend, Cherie, who is in the final stages of ALS. The world would say she is dying. But what I am witnessing is something far deeper, far more beautiful. Cherie is dying well—and there is eternal glory woven through every breath she takes.

Cherie has always been a quiet servant, one who never sought applause or attention. She simply loved, simply served, simply obeyed. Her footsteps through this life have been soft but deeply impressioned, the way a gentle rain can change the shape of hard earth. And now, as her body gives way to a disease that has stripped her of so much, her spirit shines all the more. Her dependence on Christ is not a whisper—it is a declaration.

To die well does not mean dying without suffering. ALS has been cruel, relentless in its breaking down of the body God so wonderfully made. But even as her strength weakens, her faith refuses to. What it means to die well is this: to walk into the valley of the shadow of death with confidence in the Shepherd who leads you through it. Cherie is doing just that.

There is something profoundly humbling about watching a believer step closer and closer to their eternal home. It is a reminder that death does not win. Disease does not win. Fear does not win. Christ has already secured victory, and those who belong to Him do not face death as a door slammed shut—they face it as a doorway opened wide.

I have seen in Cherie a quiet courage, the kind that only comes from knowing where her story is heading. She knows that her life here is drawing to a close, but she also knows that her real life—the life Christ promised, the life without pain or tears or decline—is just beginning. She knows that the body ALS has ravaged will one day be raised whole and radiant. She knows that she will see her Savior face-to-face. And she is preparing for that moment with grace.

There is a tenderness to these days. A softening. An awareness that the time we have with her now is sacred, entrusted to us by God. It is the kind of time that slows you down, quiets you, and changes you. Because when you watch someone die well, you cannot help but be transformed. You see what really matters. You see what truly endures. You see faith not as an idea, but as a living breath.

Cherie’s dying is teaching me that eternal life is not just a future hope—it is a present reality that steadies every step toward glory. She is showing us how to let go of this life with peace because she is already anchored in the next.

Scripture says, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his faithful servants” (Psalm 116:15 NLT). I understand that more deeply now. God is not distant from Cherie’s suffering. He is near. He is gentle. He is guiding her with a love that will carry her all the way home.

As I watch Cherie finish her race, I am reminded that dying well is not about the strength of the body—it is about the strength of the soul entrusted to Jesus. And hers is strong. Beautifully strong.

When her moment comes—and we feel it approaching—she will not be stepping into darkness. She will be stepping into the fullness of light. Into joy. Into wholeness. Into the arms of the One she has loved and served so faithfully.

Cherie is dying well. And in her dying, she is teaching us all how to live.