In my childhood I spoke freely,
saying, Mommy, I love you,
because innocence does not yet know the weight of words.
In my youth my eyes learned pride,
and my mouth learned disrespect:
You’re annoying. You embarrass me.
Because foolishness is loud
in the hearts of the young.
In the season of strength I said within myself,
I will leave. I don’t need you anymore.
And I shut the door,
believing freedom was found in distance.
But time is an honest judge,
and suffering a faithful teacher.
In the day of my struggle I whispered,
You were right.
Because wisdom often lives in a mother’s voice—
ignored by the proud,
but sought by the broken.
As my years increased,
my heart softened,
and I said, I just want to see my mom again.
And when fear touched my bones,
I cried out to God,
Please don’t take her from me now.
And one day I understood this truth:
If her voice were gone,
no price could ever buy it back.
If grace still lingers,
if she is still here with me,
then let this be my song:
Thank You, Lord,
for the gift of still having my mother.
Because between those years
were countless unseen sacrifices.
Hands worn down by work,
yet never closed in bitterness.
Feet that walked through fire for my sake,
yet still found strength to dance.
Eyes heavy with exhaustion,
yet overflowing with gentleness.
Her voice—
softer than fear,
stronger than despair.
Her love—
steady and unmovable,
even when I threw rebellion in her face.
And one day, without warning,
I caught myself.
Laughing the way she laughed.
Praying the way she prayed.
Loving the broken the way she loved.
Putting God first—
just like she did.
That’s when it hit me:
I am not replacing her.
I am continuing her.
Her fingerprints are on my soul.
Her lessons flow through my bloodstream.
Her reverence for God
is woven into who I am.
And then I saw it clearly—
she was never just “Mom.”
She was a vessel.
A living message.
Proof that God places His goodness
exactly where it’s needed.
So I refuse to wait
until silence replaces her voice
to say what should be spoken now.
If you still have a mother—
don’t wait.
Don’t wait until her breath is gone
to say thank you.
Don’t wait until absence
to say I love you.
Say it now.
Honor her now.
Because what breaks me open in worship today
is this truth:
I love her
because Christ first loved me.
I honor her
because through her life
I saw His reflection.
My love for her is holy.
It is deep.
It is real.
It is fierce.
It is the kind of love
that brings me to my knees
and lifts my hands in gratitude.
Thank You, God,
for the vessel You gave me,
and for loving me enough
to place Your glory
in her hands
to guide me home.
