I didn’t expect the attic to become sacred ground. We were simply spring cleaning—finally tackling the corners of our home that have quietly collected 27 years of life. My husband insists the clutter is my fault (and maybe he’s right), but as we began pulling down boxes and bins, what we found wasn’t junk. It was a time capsule. It was her.

There, nestled in layers of dust and time, were my mother’s speeches—her actual typed words from an event at Bennett College where I introduced her as the guest speaker in 1995, before Ron and I were even married. I held the pages like relics. Her voice echoed off the paper, strong and certain, still filled with the conviction that always drew people in. This wasn’t the baccalaureate address that she would preach years later. This was ours, just before the turn of everything.

I found photos of her serving as president of the High Point Alumnae Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc.—radiant, poised, dedicated. Then, tucked beside other fragments of the past, a photo that stopped me cold: my mother, natural hair, styled just like mine is today. No chemicals, no pretenses—just beauty in its truest form. As I begin my own fresh start this summer, it felt like she had already walked the path for me, quietly leaving breadcrumbs behind.

That’s the power of preservation.

We talk often about the importance of purging—of making room, decluttering, letting go. But I’m learning that there is a holy tension between releasing and remembering. Some things—like photographs, handwritten speeches, or a scuffed-up picture of your mother wearing your haircut—are not meant to be tossed. They are meant to be found at just the right moment.

What I thought had been lost in the shuffle of life—misplaced during our move all those years ago—had simply been waiting. God hid these treasures in plain sight until I was ready to receive them.

Today, I’m not just cleaning. I’m curating legacy. I’m celebrating the beautiful collision of memory and discovery, knowing that some of the best parts of our story live in forgotten boxes and sacred pages—just waiting for the light to find them again.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-lillie