Yesterday, we laid Mrs. Patricia Wall to rest.

I stood before a sanctuary filled with grieving hearts and read acknowledgments, condolences, resolutions, and cards on behalf of the family. Near the end of the remarks, her daughter asked me to read a personal message about missing her mother. I tried to hold myself together as I read her words aloud, but somewhere between the sentences, my own grief rose to the surface.

Because as I spoke about her mother, I was also speaking about mine.

My mother transitioned in 2015, yet the ache of losing her still feels real. Grief does not always lessen with time the way people say it does. Sometimes it simply changes shape. Sometimes it hides quietly in the background until a song, a scent, a hospital room, or a daughter’s tears call it back into the light.

Yesterday did that for me.

Mother’s Day carries a different weight for those of us whose mothers are no longer physically here. While the world celebrates with flowers, brunches, and greeting cards, many of us sit with memories. We think about the sacrifices we did not fully understand when we were younger. We remember the prayers whispered over us in the middle of the night. The tired hands. The bruised knees from kneeling before God on our behalf. The “hook or crook” determination mothers carry to make sure their children have what they need.

No, motherhood does not make women perfect or saintly. Mothers are human. But there is something sacred about a woman carrying life within her womb. As a mother myself—having carried five children, three now living—one stillborn son, and one miscarriage—I understand in a deeper way that motherhood changes a woman forever. There is a bond formed in both pain and love that cannot fully be explained.

A mother carries you before she ever holds you.

When she leaves this earth, part of her still remains within you.

Yesterday, as we honored Mrs. Wall, I thought about watching strong mothers become fragile. I remembered the summer of 2015, when my own mother went in and out of the hospital. We kept believing she would bounce back because she had always been so strong. So resilient. So present. In many ways, she felt invincible to us.

The same could be said for Mrs. Wall.

Some people carry such strength, such grace, such unwavering presence that it is difficult to imagine the world without them in it. Yet life reminds us that even the strongest among us eventually grow tired.

And still, for those who belong to Christ, death is not the end.

A few weeks ago, I wrote here in this Bloominglillies blog about transition—that for believers, death is not destruction, but movement from one place to another. Yesterday, Dean Ralph Brown shared in his reflections that he had read those words and remembered them as he reflected on Mrs. Wall’s life.

That blessed me deeply.

Because while our mothers may no longer physically walk beside us, their spirit still lives within us. Not in the way of worship, for there is only one Savior, but in the way love leaves an imprint on the soul. We hear them in our own voices. We see them in our hands, our prayers, our strength, our nurturing, and even in the way we love our own children.

Their lessons live.
Their sacrifices live.
Their love lives.

And in many ways, they still guide us.

So today, if your mother is still here, cherish her. Love her while you can. Sit with her. Call her. Listen to her stories. Extend grace. Honor the woman who carried you through seasons you may never fully understand.

And if your mother has already transitioned, allow yourself to remember her today. Cry if you need to. Smile at the memories. Thank God for the gift of having been loved by her at all.

Because the spirit of a mother never truly leaves us.

It lives on in everything love planted behind.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie