I don’t even have all the right words to fully honor my mom… and maybe I never will.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about this.
A couple of months before she passed, she texted me a poem called Home. At the time, it just felt like something sweet she wanted to share. Something that had clearly meant a lot to her over the years. I knew she had parts of it memorized, I knew it had been passed down from her mom, but I didn’t think too deeply about why she sent it then.
Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Because looking back, it feels like one of those quiet, intentional, God moments. The kind you don’t fully recognize in real time… but later, you realize it was a gift.
That poem didn’t just describe a home.
It described her life.
It talks about how a house becomes a home through years of living—through laughter, through raising kids, through fingerprints left behind, through ordinary days that become sacred simply because they were shared. It talks about joy and heartbreak living side by side. It even talks about those tender moments of sitting beside someone you love, knowing time is short.
And that’s what makes it feel so full circle now.
Because my mom didn’t just read those words…
She lived them.
When I think about her, I don’t think about just one defining moment. I think about a lifetime of showing up.
She showed up in ways that most people wouldn’t.
Track meets
school plays
dances
baseball games
Big wins
She was there for all of it. And not just when it was easy or convenient.
There were many times she would drive four hours just to be there… and then turn right around and drive four hours back home in the same day.
Eight hours in the car—for one game, one performance, one moment.
And she never made it feel like a sacrifice.
She didn't complain.
She never made it about how far she had come or how tired she might be.
She made it about us.
If her girls or grandkids were there, she was going to be there.
That’s just who she was.
And when she showed up, she showed up fully.
She was in the stands, cheering, paying attention, celebrating like it was the biggest moment in the world—because to her, it was.
Not because of what we were doing…
But because we were the ones doing it.
She had this way of making you feel like your life mattered. Like your moments mattered. Like you were worth showing up for.
And those moments? They built something in us.
They built confidence.
They built security.
They built connection.
They built a sense of home that we carry with us now.
That’s what the poem talks about.
How the little things, the everyday moments, the consistency, the presence—become the things you treasure most.
And that’s exactly what I find myself holding onto now.
Not just the big milestones…
But the image of her in the stands.
Her voice cheering.
The way she would ask questions afterward because she truly watched every second.
The way she cared.
Those were never small things.
They were everything.
And even later in life, that never changed.
After Q passed, my mom became my biggest supporter in a way that only God could have orchestrated.
In one of the hardest seasons of my life, when grief felt overwhelming and everything felt uncertain, she stepped in and stood beside me.
She told me she was proud of me—often.
She spoke life into me when I struggled to see it myself.
She encouraged me in a steady, intentional way.
She didn’t try to fix anything.
She just showed up.
And that meant everything.
Because that’s what she always did.
She showed up because it mattered.
She showed up because people mattered.
She showed up because love looks like presence.
And underneath all of that… was her faith.
My mom loved Jesus.
That’s the center of her entire story.
It’s why she could choose joy in hard seasons.
It’s why she could keep giving, even when her body was tired.
It’s why she had peace at the end.
Even in hospice, after going a month without food or drink, one of the only things she could still enjoy was ice… and she made sure every person who came into her room had some.
Even then, she was serving.
Even then, she was thinking of others.
Even then, she was pointing people to Jesus.
She would say, “Do you know Jesus? I’m going home to Heaven… and I hope to see you there.”
And she meant it.
Even telling her hospice doctors she wanted to see them in heaven.
That was her heart.
And now when I go back to that poem—the one she texted me, the one passed down from her mom—it doesn’t feel random anymore.
It feels like her legacy written out in words.
Because it says that homes become holy through the life lived inside them.
Through the joy.
Through the heartbreak.
Through the years of loving people well.
And that’s exactly what she did.
She didn’t just make a house a home.
She made everything around her feel like home.
Mom, thank you for every mile you drove, every moment you showed up for, every sacrifice you made that you never even called a sacrifice.
Thank you for choosing us again and again.
Thank you for teaching us that showing up matters.
Thank you for loving us in a way that we will carry for the rest of our lives.
And now, when I read those words—it takes a lot of living in a house to make it home—I don’t just think of a poem anymore.
I think of you.
This poem carries even more meaning than just the words themselves. The copy you see here was written out in my mom’s mom’s handwriting, carefully and intentionally, something she chose to keep and hold onto. It was passed down not just as a poem, but as a piece of legacy. Generations of women, of mothers, of faith, all tied together in these words. And now looking back, it feels so full circle, because my mom didn’t just cherish this poem… she lived it.
Before she passed, she made me a promise I will hold onto forever. She told me she would find Q in heaven and that the two of them would go fishing together. It was such a simple, beautiful picture, but it brought so much peace in the middle of so much heartbreak. Knowing her, I have no doubt she kept that promise. I can just imagine them now, side by side, casting lines in the most perfect waters, laughing, whole, and completely at peace.
And one day… We’ll all be home with you again. ✝️f
