Missing Her, Held by My Savior.

Five years.

And today, on Mother’s Day, it has officially been five years since Mumma went to be with the Lord.

There is something especially painful about grief falling on a day the world is celebrating mothers.

Everywhere I look today, I see flowers, photographs, long phone calls, and people holding tightly to the women who raised them. And while my heart is genuinely happy for them, there is still a quiet ache inside me that whispers, “I wish I still had mine too.”

Five whole years since I held my mother’s hand.

Five years since I heard her voice echo through our home.

Five years since dialysis machines, medicines, hospital corridors, and the funeral.

And somehow, by the grace of God alone, I am still here.

There are days grief feels softer now. Less loud. Less suffocating. But there are also days when it rushes back unexpectedly — when I accomplish something beautiful, when life moves forward, when I stand in moments she prayed to witness.

That is when the pain returns.

Not because I doubt God.

Not because He has failed me.

But because I loved her deeply.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes when your mother misses your becoming.

When she does not get to see the woman, you are turning into.

When she does not sit in the audience of your victories.

When you cannot discuss your decisions with her anymore.

When the person who prayed you into purpose is no longer physically beside you to watch it unfold.

And that is what broke me the most recently during VBS.

VBS was in full swing,

Children were running around all excited.

Volunteers were serving with joy.

Worship music filled the church premises

Everything felt alive.

And as I stood there watching it all unfold — watching something God had placed in my heart come to life — everyone around me was celebrating.

People were smiling at me. Encouraging me. Telling me how proud they were.

Telling me how I look and sound exactly like Mumma.

And suddenly, in the middle of all the noise and joy, grief quietly found me again.

Because all I could think was:

“My Mumma should have been here for this.”

She would have loved every second of it.

She would have sat in the front row watching the VBS kids & her kid sing.

She would have proudly told everyone, “That’s my daughter.”

She would have celebrated every little thing with the kind of joy only a mother carries.

And while everyone else got to experience the things God is doing in my life…she doesn’t.

That realization hit me harder than I expected.

I remember stepping away for a moment because the tears would not stop coming.

It is such a strange kind of grief — being deeply thankful for what God is doing while simultaneously hurting because the person you want beside you most is missing from the picture.

And I stood there crying, asking the Lord questions my heart still carries sometimes:

“Why couldn’t she stay longer?”

“Why did she have to miss this?”

“Why does everyone else get to watch my life unfold except her?”

There are moments grief feels unfair.

Not because God is unfaithful. But because love leaves deep spaces behind.

And yet, even there, the Lord met me again.

Not with loud answers. Not with instant healing. But with His presence.

It felt like God gently reminding me:

“She may not be physically here to see it…but the prayers she prayed over your life are still living.”

That broke me even more.

Because so much of who I am today was first planted in prayer by my Mumma.

The way I love Jesus. The way I serve. The burden I carry for ministry. The compassion I have for people. Even this VBS — the love behind it, the burden behind it, the heart behind it — I've learnt it all from her.

While I was going through so many emotions, it was time for the next session. All the kids gathered everyone was waiting for Singing time. My eyes were swollen and I was not in the position of leading. I remember just uttering the words - "Lord Help me"

And through HIS grace, he made me stand there and lead the session.

I felt God's comfort through the VBS song -

"In the wind, and in the waves 

Jesus, guide my way 

Shelter me and fill me with Your grace

In the calm and in the storm 

Jesus, lead me on

Every day I trust Your holy name"

I felt every word of this song.

Between all the laughter of children, worship songs echoing through hallways, and happy times, God let me feel both grief and grace at the same time.

People often assume grief disappears with time. But grief does not disappear. It changes shape.

A song.

A prayer.

A smell.

A memory.

A random Tuesday.

And suddenly I am back in those moments again — Sometimes I want to run to Mumma and tell her everything.

“Mumma, look what God did.”

“Mumma, I finally made it through that season.”

“Mumma, I’m trying.”

“Mumma, I wish you were here.”

And in those moments, grief no longer feels five years old. It feels fresh. Raw. Immediate.

Watching my Mumma fight pain while still preaching about Jesus with joy in her eyes.

What amazes me even now is not just that she suffered. It is how she suffered.

She carried pain with worship.

I watched her endure dialysis, exhaustion, weakness, and uncertainty, yet still speak about the goodness of God as though heaven itself lived inside her chest.

She did not want people to pity her. She wanted them to see Christ.

Even when her body was failing, her spirit kept pointing upward.

And honestly? That legacy has carried me more than she probably ever realized.

Because after she joined heaven, I discovered something heartbreaking and holy at the same time:

Sometimes God does not sustain us by removing the suffering. Sometimes He sustains us by becoming everything we need inside it.

That has been my testimony these five years.

Jesus has been the air in my lungs when I had panic attacks. He has been my companion when I felt hurt by loss. He has been my comfort in empty rooms and silent nights. He has been my strength in seasons where I secretly wondered if I could survive this pain.

And somehow, every single time I thought grief would destroy me, His grace carried me one more day.

Not because I am strong.

But because He is.

I used to think healing meant no longer crying. Now I think healing is being able to cry and still trust God at the same time.

Healing is worshipping with tears in your eyes. Healing is missing someone terribly while still believing the Lord is good. Healing is waking up every day with a broken heart that still chooses faith.

That is what Christ has taught me through grief.

He never once asked me to pretend I was okay.

Jesus Himself wept.

The Son of God stood before a grave and cried. Not because He was powerless. But because love grieves.

And that changes everything for me.

Because it means my tears are not faithlessness. They are evidence that love existed.

They are evidence that through it all I still trust my Savior.

And as I look at my life now, I realize it has not just been me carrying this grief — it has been my dad too.

There is a different kind of pain in watching the person you love most lose the love of their life.

I have watched my father continue serving the Lord with a heart that has known deep sorrow. I have watched him worship through silence, pray through pain, and continue walking faithfully even after losing my mother.

And somehow, through all these years, the Lord has carried both of us.

Now it is just dad and me — serving Jesus without her physically beside us. And some days, that reality still hurts deeply.

There are moments during ministry, church, church conferences, prayers, and ordinary life where her absence feels so visible. Like there is an empty space only we can truly see.

But even then, we keep serving.

Not because it is easy.

Not because we do not miss her.

But because the God she loved has remained faithful to us too.

And maybe that is one of the greatest testimonies of all: that grief did not pull our family away from God —it made us hold onto Him even tighter.

Some days I still struggle with the silence. I still wonder what life would look like if my mother were here. I still imagine her sitting beside me during milestones she prayed for.

Especially today.

Mother’s Day has a way of making the absence louder.

But then I remember this:

The same God who held her is holding me.

The same Jesus she taught me to love is the Jesus carrying me now.

And maybe that is one of the greatest gifts she left behind —not just memories, not just love, but a deep, immovable foundation in Christ.

So today, five years later, on a Mother’s Day without her, I still grieve. But I do not grieve without hope.

Because heaven is real.

Because eternity is real.

Because Jesus is still faithful.

Because loss does not get the final word — resurrection does.

If you are reading this while carrying your own grief, I want you to know something:

God is not absent in your pain.

He is there in the tears you cry privately.

He is there in the nights you feel abandoned.

He is there in the memories that hurt.

He is there when you cannot pray properly.

He is there when all you can whisper is, “Lord, help me.”

And somehow, gently and faithfully, He will sustain you too.

Not always by removing the pain. But by reminding you that even grief must bow before the presence of Christ.

Five years later, I still miss my mother deeply.

Especially today.

But five years later, I can also say this with certainty:

The Lord has truly sustained me through it all.

And if my life tells any story at all, let it tell this one —

" Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, All fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living just because He lives. "

By HIS Grace,

A Daughter with a Mother in Heaven.