Tuesday, April 27

Yesterday, we stood in a hospital room and watched life…transition.

Even writing that still feels surreal, because that really is the only word that fits. It felt out-of-body, like being fully present and aware of what was happening, and yet a part of me still could not quite grasp that it was real.

Mrs. Wall passed.

For weeks, my husband had been traveling back and forth to Chapel Hill to be with her. I was able to visit during my spring break, when she was still lucid and still very much herself. My son also had the chance to spend time with her at her home a few months ago on his spring break, when she was still up, still moving, still living her life in a way that felt familiar – slipping him a couple of twenties.

And then, in what feels like the blink of an eye, everything changed.

In just two months, we watched a woman—strong, feisty, and full of life—decline. She had been a part of my life for as long as I’ve known my husband, the kind of woman whose presence you simply expect to remain because her spirit is so strong. She was not someone you could easily imagine without her fire.

Yet, there we were, standing in that room, watching her breathing slow… and then stop.

In that moment, I was taken right back to when we stood around my own mother and made the decision to remove life support. It was the same stillness, the same heaviness, the same strange tension of knowing exactly what was happening while not wanting to accept it.

It was surreal all over again.

But in that room, alongside the grief, something else settled in as well—clarity.

As difficult as it is to witness a body failing, there is a truth we cannot avoid: this physical body has an expiration date. It was never meant to last forever. And when I say her body was tired, I mean it was truly tired. Looking at what remained and seeing the toll it had taken, it became clear that holding on would not have been an act of love. It would have meant prolonging suffering.

There comes a point where the body has to release what the spirit is ready to leave behind, and strangely, that is where hope begins to live, for what we witnessed yesterday was not the end of life. It was a transition.

For those of us who are believers, that understanding changes everything. The spirit does not die; it moves. It shifts from the temporary into the eternal. And when you know Christ, that transition—while painful for those left behind—is not something to fear. There is a sweetness to it, even in the sorrow.

That truth does not take away the sadness. I am deeply sad.

But I am not in despair.

There is a difference.

Last night, after my workout with my cousin, we talked about how quickly people seem to give up these days and how easily despair takes hold, especially among younger generations. As we talked, I kept coming back to the same thought: there is a gap we do not talk about enough.

There is a spiritual gap.

We spend so much time discussing academic gaps, opportunity gaps, and achievement gaps, but there is also a gap in understanding life from a spiritual perspective. When you do not understand that life continues beyond the body, loss can feel final and overwhelming.

When you do understand it, however, you grieve differently. You hold onto hope differently. You endure differently.

You do not collapse under the weight of loss, because you know that loss is not the end.

Standing in that room yesterday, what I will carry with me is not the frailty of her body in those final moments.

It is her spirit.

Mrs. Wall was unforgettable. She would tell you the truth whether you wanted to hear it or not, and she did not believe in sugarcoating anything. She could fuss you out and love you in the same breath, and if she believed you needed something, she would give you what she had without hesitation.

That was who she was.

A giver, a truth-teller, a strong and unmistakable presence.

And that is what remains.

That is what lives on.

It also made me think about my own mother and how, toward the end of her life, she began preparing—not physically, but spiritually. She spent time reading, reflecting, and making sure her soul was at peace. She understood that there was a transition coming, and she wanted to be ready for it.

That kind of preparation is something we do not talk about enough either because one day, whether we are ready or not, this body will reach its end.

I do not want that day anytime soon. I want to see my children married, to hold my grandchildren, and to witness all that God has in store for their lives, but when that day does come, I do not want the people I love to be consumed with despair. I want them to grieve, because grief is real and necessary, but I do not want them to lose hope.

For if I have lived the life I have prayed to live, if God has truly worked through me, then something of me will remain in the people I have poured into—in the memories, in the lessons, and in the love that was shared.

Just as my mother lives on in me.

Just as Mrs. Wall will continue to live on in all of us who knew her.

So today, I choose gratitude.

I am thankful that I knew her. I am thankful that God placed her in my life. And even in the midst of loss, I am thankful that there is still hope.

Because life does not end. It transitions.

And for those who believe, that transition is not the closing of a door.

It is the opening of eternity.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie