When Mother's Day Hits Differently: 25 Years of Navigating This Day With Faith, Love, and Grace
Share
My mother’s journey on this Earth ended rather abruptly on May 9th, 2000—12 days after her 51st birthday and 5 days before Mother’s Day that year.
My first three children were 4 years old, 3 years old, and 7 months old respectively, and I had just turned 30 the previous October.
Five days after the passing of my mother, I endured the most awkward, surreal Mother’s Day ever.
My children needed me to be a mom they could celebrate—with the cards and handmade gifts they made in school. My younger siblings needed me to lead them by example through the most painful shock of their lives. My husband at the time, triggered into reliving the loss of his own mother at the age of 11, needed me to make it go away. All the while, total strangers in were wishing me a happy Mother’s Day with big smiles and the best of intentions.
Respect for my mother tempered the urge to respond with “Thank you, my mother died last week” -I could hear her voice in my head saying “he who keepeth his mouth…”- so I held my tongue—and kept my grief to myself.
Mommy and I were not on the best terms when it happened, so I kind of felt like I didn’t have the right to be a grieving daughter. So, as is typical for the first-born of two first-borns, I threw myself into looking after everyone else and making sure her memorial service was perfect.
Every year since then, this season hits differently for me.
Because of my own experience, I am aware of how Mother’s Day lands differently for people. I am grateful to see how the world has become more aware as well—acknowledging the various truths of mother-child relationships including:
- children with complicated maternal relationships
- would-be mothers struggling to bring children into the world
- mothers and children grieving
Over the last 25 years, I have learned to navigate this stretch of time—her birthday, her transition, and Mother’s Day—with an intentional measure of faith, gratitude, wistfulness, grace, and love. I share some of that here now in hopes that someone in the early stage of this journey know that they are not alone.
I am not a counselor, pastor, therapist, or any other professional trained in grief, relationships, or loss. My point of view is simply that of a daughter doing life without her mother for more than one quarter of a century.
My mother, born Sandra Matthews, changed her name legally in the early 70s to Dhaima, which means “love is forever.” Thankfully, as with many other things she taught me, that truth has aged well.
Her love—her heart for God, for me, and for others—has continued to uphold me and make ways for me. It is the legacy I carry.
Her faith.
The greatest gift my mom ever gave me was her belief in the power and love of God. Her favorite Psalm was Psalm 27, and I know it by heart.
She taught me my first prayer before I was two years old:
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. God, please bless Mommy and Daddy and all my loved ones. Make me a good girl, amen.”
When I got the news that she passed away, her voice broke though the din in my head:
“The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?”- Psalm 27:1
I flashed back to a childhood memory of a shopping trip to Century City. In a rush, Mommy stepped onto an escalator without taking my hand. I looked down at the disappearing steps and froze in terror, then watched her rise while I stood at the bottom. She called for me to join her—“Missy, just step on and come!”—but I couldn’t move.
Eventually, a stranger picked me up and carried me up to her.
The irony of the memory was obvious.
“Although my father and my mother have forsaken me, the Lord will take me up.”- Psalm 27:10
Her village.
My mother’s circle has loved, inspired and helped to guide me since day one. I call them my MoSisAuFrens (mother/ sister/ aunty/ friend). They continue to show up for me, my siblings, and our children. They don’t just keep her memory alive—they stand in the gap, giving me a soft place to land when adulting is too much, holding space for her vision of me, and reminding me who and whose I am.
Her world.
My mother was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. My father’s family is from McComb, Mississippi. She studied art, Swahili, and African studies at San Jose State (I still have a few of her term papers- great reading). Through her life as an artist and singer, I grew up between Los Angeles, San Jose, the Bahamas, Nashville, Miami, and Jamaica. Her own travels took her to Japan, Europe, and the African continent.
Because of her, I move through the world as a unique cultural cocktail—
A California girl with Southern roots and an island twist— aka “Dhaima’s kid”
Her artistry.
Mommy was a visual artist, singer, and songwriter. My childhood was filled with books, records, music, and art. I remember sitting beside her at pottery class, watching her hands transform a lump of clay into something beautiful while my three-year old hands crafted… a wet lump. Seeing my dismay that mine didn’t look like hers, Mommy said “Myssi, you’re so creative, you turned your clay back into a rock!”
Thankfully Mommy didn’t give up on me, and I found my way through other creative expressions—dance, theater, music—learning that our best creative results come when we allow art to be an articulation of our souls.
Her vision.
My mother had a way of seeking and seeing God in everything and everyone. She moved through the world from a spiritual perspective that I’m not sure I can fully articulate—but anyone who encountered her felt it.
Once of the things that grieved me most was the knowledge of what my children were missing by not having their Umi. For a time after she passed, I misguidedly tried to fill mommy’s shoes and be all the things she was to those who loved her and missed her deeply. It was an exhausting, spiritually-depleting exercise in futility.
One night I found myself sitting on the floor of my walk-in closet in quiet self-condemnation because I could no longer afford to stage the annual birthday carnival I created the year she died in an effort to compensate my sons for her absence. She was the one everyone (including me) wanted and needed. I wasn’t her.
In that moment, a voice—soft, but firm—cut through my misery:
“Myssi, I had YOU; you didn’t have me, and I didn’t give you life so that you could try to imitate mine.”
That night, God and Mommy walked me through their version of her life—a life well-lived. Not cut short, but complete in the divine timing of the Father that she loved and trusted to call her home. And slowly, I came to understand that honoring her didn’t mean becoming her. It meant living my life—with the same faith, passion, and purpose that she lived hers.
I woke up to a memory of her in the living room of our Cupertino farmhouse, singing along to Minnie Riperton at the top of her lungs:
“The reasons for my life are filling all my spaces… you’re not alone.”
And I got the message. Dhaima lives on as I live on—not as her, but as Myshjua.
Love lives forever.
The truth is that no child, regardless of their age, is ever truly “ready” to say a finite goodbye to their mother. It is also true that we do not have to. I miss the physical presence of my mother, and I am so grateful that the relationship with God she fostered in me allows me to experience her spiritual presence always.This year, several of my friends are going to experience their first Mother’s Day without their mom. This prayer is for them, and for you if you want it.
Heavenly Father, I come to you as a daughter- Your daughter, trusting and believing Your word that You are close to the brokenhearted. I lift up those who are struggling at this moment, especially those for whom Mother's Day amplifies feelings like loss, grief, sadness, and regret asking that You meet them right where they are and that they will experience Your presence precisely where, when, and how they need it most. Thank you for wrapping their souls in the love, comfort, and peace that can only come from You. In Jesus' name, amen.