There’s an old-school R&B song that plays in my head from time to time, especially on days when I’m moving too fast or forgetting the sound of my own breath. The lyrics go:

“Mama used to say, take your time, young man.
Mama used to say, don’t you rush to get old.
Mama used to say, take it in your stride.
Mama used to say, live your life.”
— Junior, “Mama Used to Say” (1982)

Of course, I’m not a man—let alone a young man—but every time I hear that line, I nod. Not because I still listen to the song often, but because the lyrics resurface in moments like this. It’s like they were planted in my memory when I was younger, and now they rise up when life gets heavy, when I feel overwhelmed or stretched too thin. That song isn’t just nostalgic—it’s prophetic. But the things my mama used to say weren’t lyrics set to music. They were scriptures set to life. Principles sewn deep into the seams of my being. They were reminders, directives, gentle nudges, and strong warnings. Even now, years after she transitioned, I can still hear her voice. In fact, I hear it more now than ever before.

In a world that feels like it’s unraveling at the seams—where truth is distorted, leadership is fractured, storms rage louder, and schools and sanctuaries are no longer safe—I cling to the words of the woman who raised me. She wasn’t loud, but she was clear. She didn’t shout, but she stood strong. And she didn’t just parent me—she pastored me, mentored me, covered me, and commissioned me.

So today, on this quiet, wintry Sunday and in the stillness of my soul, I pause to honor her.
Not just with memory, but with meaning.
I want to share six things Mama used to say—timeless truths that continue to steady me in the shifting winds of life.

1. Keep your eyes wide open; keep your soul anchored.

Mama didn’t just ask, “How are you?” She’d ask, “How’s your soul?” And when she did, I knew it wasn’t small talk. She believed in holding onto hope, but never at the cost of discernment. Her faith was not blind—it was anchored. She taught me that keeping your eyes open wasn’t about fear; it was about wisdom. She didn’t want me walking through life naïve to the spiritual undercurrents, emotional manipulations, or political games people played. If something didn’t sit right, she’d say, “Check it in your spirit,” and she meant that. She taught me to listen for the still, small voice of God. Even in her final days, she was discerning shifts in the spirit before we saw them in the natural. She told me specifically, just a few months before she transitioned, “Giselle, a major shift is coming.” Sure enough, it would. That was the kind of discernment she carried.

2. Don’t rush God—and don’t run ahead of Him either.

There was a pace to my mother’s life that was often misunderstood by people who thought she was just “taking too long.” But Mama didn’t move at man’s pace—she moved at God’s. She would say, “You’re too far out in front, daughter. Let Him lead.” And I needed that reminder more times than I care to admit. In a world where everything is instant—instant gratification, instant downloads, instant decisions—Mama modeled waiting. But it wasn’t a passive wait. It was the kind of waiting that gets dressed anyway, that shows up anyway, that prays while walking the floor. She taught me that God doesn’t need help being God. And when I’ve been tempted to force things—relationships, jobs, even ministry—her voice would ring out like a lighthouse: “Don’t rush God. He’s not on your clock.”

3. If it doesn’t feel right in your spirit, it probably isn’t.

Mama had a doctorate in education, but her PhD in discernment came from the Holy Ghost. She could walk into a room, listen to a conversation, or hear someone speak once and instantly know the truth underneath. She never gossiped, but she watched. She didn’t judge, but she knew. She taught me early on that conviction is God’s GPS. She’d say, “When you feel that stirring in your belly—that’s the Holy Spirit. Don’t ignore it.” That kind of internal compass kept me from some major detours. And I remember her face when I didn’t listen to it… it wasn’t “I told you so.” It was grace. But I also knew—I had been warned.

4. This world is not our home—but we’ve still got work to do.

Mama understood the tension between heavenly hope and earthly assignment. She didn’t float above the problems of the world, pretending everything was fine. She engaged them—with prayer, purpose, and power. She was a minister, but also a mother, an educator, a counselor, and an anchor in every room she entered. Whether at Sunday service or a school board meeting, she was on assignment. And she never saw ministry as something you do on Sundays. Her whole life was ministry. She would nurture people’s gifts, send them to workshops, push them forward when they doubted themselves. If someone was called to preach, she encouraged it. If someone needed healing, she prayed for it. If someone had a dream, she sowed into it. She reminded me constantly that while we are not of this world, we are still in it—and God expects us to build, plant, speak, and serve while we’re here.

5. Don’t accept work you know you can’t finish.

Mama was no stranger to service, but she understood boundaries. She was a woman of her word, and her yes was sacred. If she committed to something, she completed it with excellence. But if she didn’t have the time, energy, or peace about it—she didn’t sign up. She would say, “Don’t take on work if you know you can’t finish it right.” That wasn’t laziness—that was wisdom. She watched me as I grew older and more involved, stretched between motherhood, ministry, teaching, and writing, and every so often, she’d pull me aside and say, “You’re tired because you’re trying to finish assignments God didn’t give you.” That one still hits. Even now, as I juggle multiple roles, I hear her warning: Only accept what God has graced you to complete.

6. Speak life—even when you feel death all around you.

One of the last things Mama wrote in her notebook before she passed was this:
“Everything I need is within me. I act with confidence.”
I didn’t find those words until after she was gone—but they read like a final charge. Mama never let discouragement have the last word. Even when she was in pain, even when her body was failing, her spirit refused to bend to fear or despair. She lived and breathed Philippians 1:6 (NIV): “Being confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” That kind of confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was assurance. Assurance that God finishes what He starts. That His promises are not empty. That even in the face of death, life still wins. Mama reminded me that speaking life is a spiritual weapon, and I’ve been wielding it ever since.

We are living in a generation of spiritual fog and emotional fatigue. Our young people are anxious, our elders are burdened, and many of us are doing our best to simply keep moving forward. But I believe legacy leaves a lamp for our feet. If we listen closely, we can still hear the sound of our mamas—biological, spiritual, or communal—reminding us who we are.

My mama used to say a lot of things.
And I’m finally learning how to listen.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie