Happy Birthday, Mama.

Mama was supposed to be there for Duke’s confirmation on Sunday, March 29, 2015. She had been so excited, planning to stand alongside us as Duke took his vows, stepping into the faith she held dear. But that morning, she texted to say she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t make it. It wasn’t like her to miss something this important, but I brushed it off, thinking she just needed rest after a long, hectic week of wheeling and dealing real estate.

I should have known better. It didn’t matter how tired she was or how far she had to drive—Mama always showed up. This would have been the last time. The weight of that realization presses heavily against my chest. It’s not just the physical absence that stings; it is the weight of the finality to it all. She wouldn’t be there in the pews for the vows, wouldn’t wrap anyone in her signature embrace, whispering, "I love you so very much." There wouldn’t be flowers from Winn-Dixie, no quiet words of pride, no DeDe-level, "putting-the-extra-in-guac" presence to make the moment feel more sacred.

But it wasn’t only this milestone. She wouldn’t cheer wildly at graduations, beam proudly at weddings, or cradle newborn great-grandchildren. All the future moments she would have celebrated with her whole heart are now empty spaces where her love should have been.

This kind of grief feels endless, rippling through every moment she’d miss. It feels so unfair, so deeply wrong. Yet, even in her absence, I am called back to the deeper revelation: she is still here. Not literally, of course, but through memories and the love she poured into our lives. She is still here in the way she taught us to show up, to love deeply, and to find beauty even in hard times.

Almost the entire first year after Jeremy died, Mama drove down every weekend, arriving with bags from the Jitney Jungle a mile from my house and something to cook. But first, always, she took her signature power nap. Then, with a burst of renewed energy, she filled the house with warmth, easing the ache just a little. Mama had two modes: full throttle or completely exhausted from giving everything she had. And I am my mother’s daughter.

Holidays were Mama’s specialty—the sparkle of Christmas, the pastel joy of Easter, the patriotic hues of July Fourth. She delighted in festive table settings, seasonal touches, and bouquets picked from Winn-Dixie. But beneath the glitter, Mama often carried a quiet sadness. She worked extra hard to create holiday magic for us, yet each celebration felt bittersweet, tinged with shades of blue. There were many Blue Christmases—actually, many Blue Every Holiday. Despite her enormous efforts, she rarely found the joy she so diligently tried to spark in us. Yet she kept showing up—week after week, holiday after holiday—loving us out loud, steadily, like only a mother could.

 I can’t imagine how exhausted she must have been—juggling relentless work, her grief, and watching her daughter suffer heartbreak. It was as if she worked extra hard to keep the sadness away, yet her mammoth efforts still came up wanting.

That text she sent about missing Duke’s confirmation turned out to be one of our last communications. The next day, Mama extinguished her own candle too soon, leaving a darkness I still feel every day. What I wouldn’t give for one more text, one more hug, one more meal, one more “you need more lipstick,” one more chance to tell her she didn’t have to carry it all alone—that we could cross this raging river together, just like she always carried me.

It’s funny how small flashbulb moments stick—like Mama sipping a Diet Sprite during Chloe’s pageant weekend prep the week before Duke’s confirmation, happily content even through exhaustion. Her quirky and oftentimes demanding instructions—more mascara, brighter lipstick, Crest White Strips at the last minute—were annoying at the time for sure, but now are cherished memories. She even rushed off to Winn-Dixie for flowers to remind Chloe she was adored. That was Mama’s way: an infinite series of acts of tender care, even when she didn’t have it to give. 

Her legacy remains woven into every meal shared, every whispered "I love you," every time I give my kids the signature DeDe “side eye death stare.” Mama taught me to show up for my people and love them fiercely. And goodness – I just miss her so very much. This kind of sorrow is perpetual, really—the sword that pierces again and again. Yet, somehow, I’m still not fully sure how we learn to live with it. Maybe that’s the miracle—not the absence of sorrow, but the ability to carry it while still finding pockets of joy and love in life. To keep showing up in sacred spaces, lighting candles, breaking bread together, trusting these rhythms of holiness even when we don’t understand the “why.” 

Maybe faith isn’t about having all the answers. It's about showing up, again and again, even when we are shattered to pieces and glued back together again in new ways, trusting that the flame of love endures.

Happy birthday, Mama. Your candle still burns bright within and all around us.