I will not let Mother’s Day be consumed with sadness because you’re not here, Mom. Why should I? You were tired of the fight, tired of dealing with cancer, and looking forward to your heavenly home. “Either way, I win,” you said. “God will either heal me, and I can work for Him here, or He’s going to take me home, and I’ll get to be with Him sooner.”

Oh, Mom. You’re with Him now. You’ve truly won.

So, why should I let this day be tainted like the enemy has won some sort of victory when he has clearly lost? Why should I let Satan steal one more second of my joy when God has provided so much of it for me to walk in?

When I think of you, Mom, it’s like walking in a field of wildflowers, picking each memory and gathering them in a beautiful bouquet to carry with me. It’s like those times I plucked the wild lilacs from the hill when I was a little girl and raced to hand them over so you could enjoy them from their tiny cup of water on the kitchen windowsill. Only the flowers I’m picking now are for me so that I can keep you close.

I stop and savor each memory, even laughing and wondering if you remember our walk after a heavy rain when I got stuck in the mud. You came to my rescue, freeing me from my boots, which remained standing, defiant, unmovable. We laughed until we cried as I tried to tiptoe through the mud in my socks to fetch those stubborn things that finally gave in with a loud slurp after my tugging and pulling.

Of course, some memories bring another kind of tears, like our last face-to-face conversation. I knelt at your chair and fought to speak. “If Jesus comes back for you,” I said, “don’t wait for me to get here. Go with Him.” We both understood the physical distance between us. Your response: “What if I wait for you there?”

Oh, Mom. Is your heavenly mansion next to mine? Have you decorated your place with bouquets of your memories? I’m filling my heart with them. Every day, I find a new memory, a delicate flower, and tuck it away. Sometimes, I bring one out to share with others, but mostly, I keep them to myself.

At first, remembering you brought unbearable pain, but God has been healing my heart. So now I keep picking wildflowers with His hand in mine, allowing the light to bathe the petals as He gently leads me through this field of our memories. I can see now that God was always with us, Mom. Amazing, really, that He’s with you now and still here with me. God truly is love, keeping us close this way.

Now, it’s as if He’s lifted my chin, wiped my tears, and shown me the wildflowers – the memories of you – are growing along the path ahead. I’m not leaving you behind—you’re going with me. The memories of you live on through my journey.

I sense God has taken my hand and led me forward, allowing me moments to rest and reminisce. We talk about you. I thank Him, repeating the phrase I always used: “Out of all the moms in the world, I would have picked you.” We laugh at the irony of those words now.

He pulls me in closer, and I notice a sea of vibrant wildflowers stretching as far as the horizon. I smile as the Holy Spirit reveals they are the memories I share with my heavenly Father. I giggle like a little girl as He leads me there and twirls me around in those flowers. The petals are soft on my bare feet. His hand is strong and yet tender enough to let me dance. The longer we dance, the more my heart is healed, and the deeper my love for Him grows.

So, this Mother’s Day, I will continue to thank God for you, Mom, as I dance in His arms with wildflowers tucked in my hair and a grateful heart bursting with enough memories to carry me home.

“You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.” (Psalm 30:11-12 NIV.)

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