She Finished the Race: Love, Loss, and the Slow Return of Joy
A Love Letter to the Woman Who Gave Me Life
“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.
The Walk That Brought It All Back
This morning, something in my body kept telling me to get out of the house and take a walk on this beautiful day. I had just finished a guided meditation by Sarah Blondin titled “I Am Here. I Am Home,” which was recommended to me by one of the amazing Full Focus coaches, Marissa Hyatt, my personal business coach at the time.
As I followed the prompts, tears began to fall. I was settling my body and mind into the present moment, and 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 — the upcoming Wednesday Night Market Place event with cornhole competitions, food trucks, Pilates in the park, live music, and countless ways to experience joy.
And then I came across the bench.
The bench where Mommy had rested after her victorious walk around the village path in late May 2024. I remember her saying, “Look, daughter! I walked the whole path!”
That sight brought back a flood of 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 had her in my care during that final month she spent with my husband and me.
One Month of Everything
In late March 2024, Mommy purchased a first-class, one-way ticket from California to Florida. When I picked her up from the airport, an attendant wheeled her to baggage claim so she wouldn’t have to walk the long distance. She looked a bit more frail than when I’d 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 her last visit in July 2023, following the celebration of life for Daddy after his passing in June 2023. So much had happened since then. Daddy’s passing had also coincided with the loss of two of my very best friends just months apart. Those stories I’ll tell another time, because this one is about Mommy.
Before she came to Florida, we had sold her home so she could begin a new chapter in North Carolina, living near her nieces. It was perfect, a short flight from Florida and just an hour’s drive to her new place. 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 our fourth or fifth time seeing him together, and I was so grateful for that night. Sitting beside her, I had a quiet feeling this would be our last concert together. There was something in the way she watched him on stage, singing along softly.
The following week, we traveled to North Carolina to see the lot she’d purchased for her new home. She spent time with her nieces while I rested from a cold. After four days, we returned to Florida.
Back home, we visited the Ringling Museum, the famous mansion, the grounds, and what’s known as the “Clown School,” all on the same enchanting, breathtaking property. One thing that was especially important, Mommy trusted me to arrange a visit with my dentist for some issues she’d been having with her upper dentures. After years of struggling with a set that never fit properly, she finally got new ones. She looked even more beautiful, and I was so happy she could eat and speak comfortably again.
We enjoyed seafood dinners, watched a few NBA Finals games, and sat on the lanai by the pool overlooking the preserve, where the cranes, gators, and other wildlife entertained us. Mommy loved to read, so I took her to a local bookstore where she picked out a couple of books, a crossword puzzle book, and a bookmark with Proverbs 31:25 inscribed on beautiful purple leather.
The next day, I wanted to make sure she got to see the bay. We spent about an hour on the shores of Bird Key with our favorite Starbucks drinks, hers was a Grande Emperor’s Clouds & Mist Tea. We walked for a bit, then sat on a bench and watched the clouds drift by, with a brief light rain. 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 to mention the attention she got from a couple of very flirty elderly gentlemen who complimented her outfits and her gorgeous gray and white hair. I loved that for her, even though she wasn’t very comfortable with the attention.
The Morning Everything Changed
Then came the morning of May 20, 2024.
I noticed Mommy hadn’t come out for breakfast. When I checked on her, still in bed with her back to me, she said she was tired and her stomach ached. I asked if she wanted to see a doctor. She said no. After about twenty minutes, she came out. I made her a small bowl of oatmeal, the way she liked it. She tried to eat, but couldn’t.
She went back to bed. I 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 was how just a week ago, we had celebrated Mother’s Day with her.
Everything happened so fast. They took her to the hospital just five minutes away. When I arrived and was allowed to see her, she was moving strangely in the bed. Later, I learned she was seizing. I heard her faintly say, “It hurts,” her eyes unfocused. I told them what I knew of her medical history; kidney disease, a recent fistula placement, diabetes, but soon she began to crash.
They rushed her down a long yellow hallway. I ran beside the gurney, praying silently, while a hospital worker ran yards behind, trying to get my mother’s insurance information. The doctor, one of four staff members pushing the gurney, finally screamed back to the worker, “That can wait!” That moment, so chaotic, so surreal, still lingers in my memory.
“That’s My Daughter, Tina”
After surgery, Mommy was moved to the ICU. I had brought her Proverbs 31 bookmark, which was more for my much needed strength. I asked the nurses if I could hang it on her bed. They said yes.
It took nearly three days for her to wake. Then she did, she knew me. She could speak. I was so thankful.
The nurses came and went. Two physical therapists arrived with coloring pages, asking her to describe the pictures and to tell them who I was.
She said, “Yes, that’s my daughter Tina.”
I loved hearing that.
She eventually grew frustrated with the repetition. “How many times do I have to tell you who she is and who is in those pictures?” she snapped. And then, suddenly, she started 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, the two physical therapists tried to lift her. They kept pushing and trying to get her to move, just days after the trauma. All that movement caused her body to give out. She froze. Her eyes stared blankly into space. A nurse rushed in and realized Mommy had suffered a stroke. They announced the code and the room number.
Those earlier moments were the last time I heard her voice.
The Hardest Decision
Following the stroke, Mommy spent another week and a half in the hospital; blood transfusions, dialysis, and so many prayers. A CT scan revealed white spots on her brain causing irreparable damage. She would never recover.
I had notified my brother the day Mommy was admitted. He and his fiancée flew to Florida two days later. After much discussion, we agreed: Mommy wouldn’t want to live on a feeding tube and dialysis. His fiancée, a nurse, confirmed that Mommy had told her the same thing during an earlier stay with them in California.
After that very difficult decision, we moved Mommy to hospice, just down the street. I checked to see if the bookmark — Proverbs 31:25 on purple leather — had traveled with her. The EMTs kindly told me she had held onto it as they wheeled her gurney into her from the ambulance to her room.
A Sacred Goodbye
The Hospice House was a lovely, peaceful place with a wonderful staff. Her room faced a lake, and I always left the blinds open for her. The staff treated her with the dignity and grace she deserved. On one visit, I was able to give her a lavender massage while Johnny Mathis played softly in the background.
On what would be our final day together with her, my brother and his fiancée came to visit and told me they would be leaving. They said their goodbyes.
When they left the room, I pulled out my phone, read Proverbs 31 to her, and thanked her for the unconditional love she had always extended to my brother and me. I recorded that precious last moment. The audio was faint, but you can hear Mommy breathing; steady, labored, precious.
After moments of knowing I wasn’t going to be able to hold on to her much longer, I prayed and thanked the Lord for giving me life through such a beautiful person.
I left the Hospice House feeling empty and, in a strange way, alone.
That night, the call came.
I returned to the Hospice House for our final time together. Seeing her there so peaceful.
She was gone. My dear, sweet Mommy went home to be with Jesus.
12:34 O’Clock
As I go forward in living my life without her physical presence, I still see her in small things: a lavender bloom, a classic song, the glow of the digital clock reading 12:34 PM.
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 12:34 PM, 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 everyone she loved who went before her.
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” — Proverbs 31:25
Even now, I still miss her every day. Some days there are light tears. Other times, it’s a guttural cry. As my life goes on without her physical presence, her laughter, her calling to say “Hello, darling 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 your race. You finished well. ❤️
Finding Your Smile Again
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.
“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
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 Mommy 🌷
Love, Tina 💖
Dear JGW 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. ✨
“From my heart to yours, thank you for reading. 💖
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I'm literally crying! What a wonderful tribute to a wonderful woman! I'm so sorry for your loss! Thank you for sharing this! 🥺🙏
I'm in tears. Thank you for sharing. Beautiful mom and reflection.