Let me tell you a story about a woman so special to me…
A woman who became the reason for my strength,
the reason for my witness,
the very essence of the phrase “strong Black woman.”
She was my mother.
No matter what life handed her, she did an amazing job with what she had.
She raised her children with grit, love, and a kind of quiet courage that only God could give.
But my mother struggled with something I later realized I struggled with too:
Letting go.
I mean truly letting go —
letting go of the repeated offender,
the one who apologizes today and wounds you again tomorrow,
the one you forgive repeatedly until you finally say:
“I can’t forgive you this time. Not because I don’t love you, but because you refuse to change.”
Some people lose the privilege of their presence.
My mother didn’t always know how to do that.
She loved it hard.
She forgave quickly.
She held on longer than she should have.
And as I grew older, I realized I inherited that same heart.
We didn’t understand forgiveness the way Jesus meant it.
We knew how to say, “I forgive you,”
but we didn’t know how to release the pain.
We didn’t know how to walk away.
We didn’t know how to protect our peace.
Jesus died on the cross for us.
He washed away every sin.
He loved us despite everything.
But back then, I didn’t know I could forgive like that.
I didn’t know I could love someone and still chose distance.
It wasn’t until I became a grown woman —
standing in the last year of my mother’s life —
that everything changed.
My mother was the type of woman who meant what she said.
If she spoke it, she stood on it.
And she carried a spiritual sensitivity that only God could give.
God showed her things.
He gave her visions.
He whispered to her in ways that made you stop and listen.
A week before she passed, she started getting her affairs in order.
She began apologizing to me, telling me maybe she wasn’t a good mother,
that she tried her best.
I stopped her immediately.
None of that mattered.
She was my hero.
She raised her children the best she could.
And somewhere between my awkward teenage years and my grown‑woman strength,
she became my best friend.
I told her,
“No matter what, you are the best.
I am proud of you.
I am proud you are my mother.”
A week later, I got the call.
My cousin told me she had passed.
Everything inside me rushed at once —
grief, shock, responsibility, love.
I knew what I had to do.
I had to get there.
I had to stand strong.
I had to honor her.
As my siblings and I prepared her wake
I realized something:
My mother knew.
She had started calling people she hadn’t spoken to in years.
She began making amends.
She began forgiving.
She began releasing.
She started her healing before she left this earth.
When I stood at her funeral and read my poem,
I understood her in a way I never had before.
She knew what she had to do.
She knew peace mattered.
She knew forgiveness mattered.
And in that moment, I felt God working through me.
Any bad blood I had with anyone didn’t matter anymore.
All that mattered was peace.
How many people can say that in their final hours,
they finally forgave,
finally healed,
finally became the person God called them to be?
Seeing how many people she touched,
how many lives she helped,
how many hearts she softened —
I was truly proud of her.
I knew she was finally resting in peace.
And since then, God has stepped in and shown me the true essence of forgiveness.
My mother taught me strength.
But God…
God taught me supernatural strength.
And if you’re reading this, I want you to know:
No matter your pain,
no matter your story,
no matter your wounds —
God can heal all things.
He did it for me.
He can do it for you.
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