“Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.” — Psalm 126:5
There are mornings when the ache still brings memories of:
A scent,
A song,
A date circled in memory.
Grief doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it hums softly beneath the rhythm of our days. But even when it does, joy still waits nearby. Patient and kind, like sunlight pressing through clouds…it takes time.
Mommy Finished the Path
This morning something in my body kept telling me to get out of the house and take a walk on this beautiful day. It was time to enjoy nature after listening to a guided meditation by Sarah Blondin titled “I Am Here. I Am Home.” This meditation was recommended to me by one of the amazing Full Focus coaches, Marissa Hyatt.
As I followed the prompts, tears began to fall. I was relaxing, settling my body and mind into the present moment. Something inside me was stirring, making a deeper connection than I expected.
When the meditation ended, I knew I couldn’t rush back to my normal rhythm. God was doing something sacred in me, and I needed to be obedient to that moment. So I ventured out and began my walk.
I love walking through the village in my local community near the marina. There’s always something special going on like the upcoming Ranch Nite Wednesday event with cornhole competitions, food trucks, Pilates in the park, live music, and countless ways to experience joy.
Pardon me a moment, squirrel! I happened to look up and saw an alligator taking an afternoon swim. (I even caught it on video!) Like I said, there’s always something wonderful happening here.
As I continued walking, I came across the bench where Mommy had rested after her victorious walk on the path around the village in late May 2024. I remember her saying “look daughter, I walked the whole path!”
That sight brought back so many memories of the beautiful woman she was inside and out and the amazing mother she had always been. I could spend a lifetime writing about her.
Mommy went home to be with Jesus on June 6, 2024. Even with the time that has passed, I still thank God for the opportunity to have her in my care for that final month she spent with my husband and me.
In late March 2024, she had purchased a first-class, one-way ticket from Los Angeles directly to Sarasota. I remember picking her up from the airport. She arrived with an attendant who wheeled her to baggage claim so she wouldn’t have to walk the long distance. She looked a bit more frail than when I had last seen her the year before, but still so beautiful in her favorite purple warm-up outfit, the one she always loved.
We embraced as if it had been forever, though it had only been about a year since we’d last seen each other in July 2023, after I’d helped her through Daddy’s passing. And now, she was here again in late April 2024.
So much had happened after Daddy’s passing and the loss of two of my very best friends. Those stories I’ll tell another time because this one is about Mommy. Before she came to Florida, we sold her home so she could begin a new chapter in North Carolina, near her nieces. It was perfect. Just a short flight from Sarasota to Charlotte and an hour’s drive to her new home. I started planning my life around visiting her often. Time was precious; she was in her early eighties, and though she didn’t let on how sick she really was, I sensed it.
Within a week of her arrival, we went to see her favorite entertainer, Johnny Mathis. It was an amazing show, our fourth or fifth time seeing him together and I was so grateful for that night. Sitting beside her, I had a quiet knowing that this would be our last concert together. There was something in the way she watched him on stage, as she sang along.
Mommy also revisited the Ringling Museum where she could experience what was known as the clown school which she adored, and finally got her new upper dentures after years of struggle with the old set that never fit properly. She looked beautiful and I was happy that she could now eat and speak without interference. We picked out books at the bookstore and she chose a bookmark with Proverbs 31:25 inscribed on beautiful purple leather.
We even traveled to North Carolina to see her lot for the new home. She spent time with her nieces while I rested from a cold. When we returned to Florida, we shared seafood dinners, watched the NBA Finals, and sat on the lanai, enjoying the pool and the preserve where the cranes, gators, and other wildlife entertained us.
We even made it to the shores of Bird Key with our Starbucks drinks, sitting on a bench to watch the clouds drift by. I loved that for her. In that single month, we visited more places together than I had in three years of living in Florida.
Oh I can’t forget all the attention she got from a couple of very flirty elderly gentlemen who had complimented her on her outfits and even her gorgeous gray and white hair. I loved that for her, even though she wasn’t very comfortable with the attention she was getting.
Then, one morning, on May 20, 2024, I noticed she hadn’t come out for breakfast. When I checked on her, she said she was tired and her stomach ached. I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital, and she said no. Later, she tried to eat but couldn’t.
I went back to her room and asked if she wanted me to call her doctor; she said yes. My spirit urged me to call 911, and I’m grateful I did. When the EMTs arrived, they told me she was very sick and might not make it through the night.
All I kept thinking is how just a week ago, we celebrated Mother’s Day with her.
Everything happened so fast. They took her to the hospital just five minutes away. I arrived shortly after and was allowed to see her. She was moving strangely in the bed they had placed her in. Later, I learned she was seizing and I heard her faintly say, “It hurts,” her eyes unfocused. I told them what I knew of her medical history; her kidney disease, recent fistula, diabetes, but soon she began to crash.
They rushed her down the long yellow hallway. I ran beside the gurney, praying silently, while a hospital worker was running yards behind the gurney and tried to ask me about insurance. The doctor finally screamed to her, “That can wait!” That moment, so chaotic, so surreal, still lingers in my memory.
After surgery, she was moved to the ICU. It took nearly three days for her to wake. When she did, she knew me and was able to speak. I was so thankful. The nurses came and went, and two physical therapists arrived with coloring pages, asking her to describe them as well as asking if she knew who I was. She said yes, that’s my daughter Tina. I loved hearing that. She eventually grew frustrated and asked “How many times do I have to tell you who she is and who is in those pictures?” she snapped. And then, suddenly, she began singing “Sweet Caroline.” I joined in, harmonizing with her on the “Bah, bah, bah.” That moment filled me with such hope.
But just moments later, when the physical therapists tried to lift her, just days after the trauma, her body gave out. She froze. Her eyes stared blankly. A nurse rushed in and realized she had suffered a stroke. They announced the code for the stroke and the room number. That was the last time we heard her voice.
She spent two more weeks in the hospital. Blood transfusions, dialysis, prayers. A CT scan revealed white spots on her brain was irreparable damage. She would never recover. When my brother and his fiancée arrived, we agreed, Mommy wouldn’t want to live on a feeding tube, which was something his fiancée (who is a nurse) was told by mom during her stay with them.
We moved her to hospice, just down the street. I checked to see if the bookmark had traveled with her from her hospital bed to the Hospice House, which the EMTs kindly informed me that she held onto as they wheeled her gurney into her room.
The Hospice House was a lovely place and with its wonderful staff. It was peaceful there. Her room faced a lake, so I always left the blinds open for her. The staff treated her with dignity and grace. I gave her a lavender massage and played Johnny Mathis softly.
On what would be our final day together, I read Proverbs 31 to her and thanked her for the unconditional love she extended to my brother and me. Something told me to record it those precious last moments. You can barely hear my voice in that recording, but you can hear her breathing steady, labored, precious.
That night, the call came. She was gone.
I still see her in small things: a lavender bloom, classic songs, the glow of the digital clock reading 12:34. That was our little joke. “Mommy, it’s one-two-three-four o’clock!” She’d roll her eyes, and I’d grin. She was always about numbers and didn’t think it was funny.
Now, when I see it, I smile and say, “I love you, Mommy. I miss you more.” I tell her about my day and remind her that she’s in the best place with all whom she loved that preceded her.
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” — Proverbs 31:25
Even now, I miss her every day. Some days there are light tears and other times it’s a guttural cry. As my life goes on without her physical presence, her laughter or her calling and saying “Hello daughter, it’s your mother”, the reality is that this is the part of life you can never prepare yourself for…But God!
Yes, Mommy. You most certainly finished the path and you finished well!❤️
Finding Your Smile, Again
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort” —2 Corinthians 1:3
Joy after loss isn’t loud or instant. It comes quietly, like dawn after rain.
It’s the strength to keep walking, to laugh again, to notice beauty even while the heart still trembles.
If you are grieving, hear this:
Smiling again isn’t betrayal. It is an honor.
You are living the joy your loved one helped plant within you.
Know that Jehovah Nacham* has been walking with you and hears your cries.
*Jehovah Nacham - The Lord is my Comforter.
Prayer
Lord, thank You for love that outlives the body.
Teach us to hold our memories not as weights, but as wings.
When grief whispers, help us listen with gratitude and grace.
Let joy rise slow, steady, eternal until we meet again in Your light.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
In Loving Memory of Ethelyn O. Sullivan - (February 1942 to June 2024)
With joy,
Tina❤️
Friend, if this story spoke to you, share it with someone who needs to know that joy can rise again.
Together, we can be light-bearers for one another spreading hope, faith, and joy God’s way!✨