Today, we laid my Mom to rest.

This evening, a close friend asked if I was okay. I had just finished my evening meditation with God—something that’s become a quiet space for me to process all this—and it brought a kind of clarity I didn’t expect.

My Mom and I spoke several times a day, every day. It’s hard to grasp that I’ll never again hear her say, “I love you. I’m praying for you.” That absence feels overwhelming.

I’ve come to realize I’m on my own now. Her voice won’t be there to console me, to ground me, to remind me of who I am when I lose my way. But something shifted in me tonight.

I thought back to the last time I held her hand. Deep down, I knew it might be the final time—and it hurt. But tonight I saw something else: those hands had been in pain for decades. They had cooked, comforted, served, and soothed through years of hardship and heartache. Those hands missed her parents, her brother, her sister, and her beloved husband.

Those hands were tired. And they were ready. Ready to be free of pain. Ready to rest in the presence of the Lord she faithfully prayed to every day.

She deserved peace.

So, through the tears, I’ve found the strength to let go of her hand. Not because I wanted to—but because it was right.

I love you, Mom. I always will.

I Love You Mom...