In early 2004, all my winter plans seemed to revolve around the results of my CT Scan. I sent in a $100 deposit on an rv parking space in Casa Grande, Arizona, asking my landlord to hold my check until I got the results. The retreat speaking I'd been asked to do also would depend upon the test results. Though I had been declared "cancer free" only two months earlier, I couldn't seem to get excited about planning a "snow bird" trip until after the January 5th procedure. I knew I was at the crossroads of my life—or my death.

One night I dreamed I saw the form of a man draped in white, standing at the junction of a dirt road. The road split, forming a Y, and I wasn't concerned about which way I would go. I believed the form was Jesus waiting to walk with me no matter which path I chose. In the days following that dream, I recalled that picture in my mind again and again. I was certain that I would know which way to go when the doctor's call came the day after the CT Scan.

"It doesn't look good, Barbara," said Dr. Higgins gently. "The cancer is in the liver in several places. You may not have very long."

I began asking questions while my friend, Jan, started to cry. We were having lunch out when the call came on my cell phone. Together, we went to the doctor's office to pick up a copy of the lab report. Dr. Higgins was at the front desk and he wrapped his arms around me while saying he wished it could have been different. He then showed me a picture of the tumors on the computer screen and advised, "Cancel your motor-home trip, get your affairs in order, and go out to lunch a lot with the girls." The time frame, he guessed, would be a few months, and it wasn't likely that I would see next Christmas.

I had known this was a possibility, because my type of cancer, angiosarcoma, is rare, very aggressive, and almost always metastasizes. But the doctors seemed sure it was encased in my spleen when they removed it in October 2003.

Now, less than three months later, I was facing a different kind of journey than the motor-home adventure I had planned. I was "going home."

How could I tell my family? Widowed 23 years ago, I was the only living parent my three grown daughters had. I was a healthy, active 72-year-old who walks, rides her bike, and drives a 30-foot motor home all across the country. Who will believe this?

I called my oldest daughter, Vikki, first. A long, painful sigh was all I heard on the other end. Then I told her all the facts. After a pause, she said, "Just think, Mom, now you can eat all the chocolate you want."

I loved it! Vikki isn't one to show emotions, and her sense of humor covered the words she didn't have to say. Her sisters, Brenda and Jeri, were next.

I knew it would be the people who cry that would be most difficult for me, yet I knew they needed to hear it from me, not someone else. It was easier for those I could tell in person, because I could hug, hold, and reassure them that I was at peace with dying. "I'm one of the lucky ones," I'd tell them. "I have time to say 'I'm sorry' for mistakes made, time to tell my three daughters what special women they are, time to still make some great memories." And, yes, time to go out to lunch with the girls.

My dreams to be a published writer and to travel both abroad and in the United States have come true. I've got some of the greatest friends in the world. My church is like a big, wonderful family. I now think of life like being on a great vacation. Even the best vacation must come to an end—and hopefully while we are still having a good time. We may feel sad for a moment, but isn't it always good to come home?

Funny, I don't feel sad about going home. I do pray for strength for the journey. As I get closer to reaching out to grasp God's welcoming hand, I've learned some things that I hope will equip all of us for our final journey home, whether it's in six months or 60 years.