I’m sitting here in an old, tattered sweater, wrapped in a blanket, trying to fight off whatever sickness has decided to settle in this week. My body feels weak, but it’s my heart that feels heavier today. It’s Sunday, my favorite day of the week, and instead of being in church or spending the afternoon with my daughter and my grandchildren like I usually do, I’m sitting here alone, listening to the quiet.
Sundays have become sacred to me, not just because I get to worship in God’s house, but because of what usually comes after. The familiar rhythm of spending time with my daughter and grands, the sound of little feet running through my living room, my daughter’s laughter mixing with mine. Those moments have become a reflection of God’s goodness and grace, a living reminder of how He restored a closeness between us that I once thought might never be.
We haven’t always been this close. For years, I prayed that God would heal what was broken between us, that He would bridge the distance that seemed too wide for me to cross on my own. And now, after all that waiting and hoping, He’s done it. My daughter isn’t just my child anymore; she’s one of my dearest friends, my encourager, and often the one who understands me best, especially spiritually. When I share what I believe the Lord has spoken to me, she doesn’t question or doubt. She listens, she believes, and she cheers me on. She’s the one I reach out to when God shows me something new, the one who reminds me to keep pressing forward.
And now she’s leaving.
She and her husband have sold their house. Soon they’ll be packing up their lives and moving two states away with my two precious grandchildren. I’ve known this was coming since the spring when she first told me their plans. I had my time of tears then, days of trying to process what it would mean to have them so far away, but I told her what I meant with all my heart: that she needed to do what she felt God was leading her to do, and that I supported her fully. I still do. But now that the move is real, and the countdown has begun, the ache has found its way back to my heart in a deeper way.
This afternoon, as I sit here, it hit me. There aren’t many Sundays left before they go. And this one feels wasted because I’m sick. I know it isn’t wasted in God’s eyes, but in my mother’s heart, I can’t help but feel like something precious has been lost.
Before this week, before I got sick and before I found out that their house was officially under contract, I was praying one morning, pouring my heart out to God about so many things. In the stillness of that prayer, the word Nehemiah came to mind. It was soft, almost like a whisper, but it stayed with me all day. I didn’t know why, so a few days later, I looked it up. Nehemiah means “Yahweh comforts” or “God has comforted.” I didn’t realize then that God was preparing me for something, quietly letting me know that He would be my comfort in the days ahead.
A few weeks ago, before any of this unfolded, I had sent her a voice text. The enemy had been attacking me for weeks, pressing in on multiple areas of my life, and that day I just needed to speak my heart out loud. My voice trembled as I told her what was happening. I could see the plan of the enemy so clearly, the same kind of plan he’s used before to try to knock me down. But I told her through tears that I wasn’t falling for it this time. I was full of faith. I knew I would make it through with God’s help.
And I still believe that.
But faith doesn’t mean the absence of pain.
Sometimes, it means learning to trust God with the very thing that hurts the most.
As I sit here today, I can feel the edges of that hurt. It’s a strange mix of gratitude and grief, grateful that God has restored my relationship with my daughter and grieving that distance will soon stretch between us again. I keep reminding myself of Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
He is close. I know He is. But even knowing that doesn’t stop the tears from falling sometimes.
And then I think of my other children. My teenage son and my daughter who is newly in love both still live at home. I love them deeply, but I try to give them space. I don’t want to push myself into their worlds. They’re in a different season, busy, growing, figuring out who they are. My other daughter lives a state away. And because we don’t always see eye to eye, she has chosen to keep some distance, and that’s a wound I’ve had to place in God’s hands every morning.
I love all my children so very much, each in their own way, but when my oldest daughter and my grandchildren leave, I know I’ll feel the quiet more than ever. The house will feel bigger. The weekends will feel longer. And I can already sense the ache of wondering what my life will look like when they’re gone.
For twenty-eight years, my identity has been “Mama.” It’s who I’ve been since the day I first held my oldest in my arms. Every decision, every routine, every prayer has in some way revolved around being their mom. And now, as this new season approaches, I find myself asking a question I never really thought I’d have to: Who am I now?
Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”
I know that’s true.
But sometimes, the changing of seasons feels like loss before it feels like purpose.
Maybe that’s why the Lord whispered Nehemiah to my heart, to remind me that His comfort is steady even when life shifts beneath my feet. That His plans are always good, even when they take us down paths we didn’t choose. I keep thinking about the walls Nehemiah rebuilt, how God used him to restore what had been broken and burned down. Maybe God is doing some rebuilding in me too. Maybe this season of letting go is also a season of becoming, of learning who I am apart from the role I’ve held so tightly for so long.
There’s a quote by Elisabeth Elliot that says:
“God never withholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good. God’s refusals are always merciful—‘severe mercies,’ at times but mercies all the same.”
Maybe this distance, this transition, is a mercy I can’t yet see. Maybe it’s a way for my daughter to walk fully in the path God has called her to, and for me to lean even deeper into my own.
Still, it hurts.
And I think it’s okay to say that out loud.
It hurts to imagine their laughter fading from these walls, to picture their toys strewn all over the place. It hurts to know that I can’t just stop by or pick up the phone and say, “Come over for dinner.” But love often carries both joy and sorrow in the same breath. As much as my heart aches, it’s also full of pride, pride in the woman my daughter has become, the wife and mother she is. I see God’s hand all over her life, and I trust that wherever He leads her, He will bless her.
Psalm 126:5 says, “Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.” I’m holding onto that promise. Because even in these tears, I’m sowing trust. I’m sowing faith. I’m sowing love that doesn’t depend on proximity.
I know God will comfort me. He already is. He’s been preparing me for this moment in ways I didn’t even recognize. He’s teaching me to rest in Him more deeply, to lean on His companionship when the house feels empty. He’s reminding me that my identity doesn’t begin or end with motherhood. I will always be “Mama,” but I’m also His daughter, His servant, His beloved.
As I sit here, my chest and heart heavy and my body weary, I whisper a prayer of gratitude. Because even in my brokenness, I can see His faithfulness. He’s carried me through every season before this one, and I know He’ll carry me through this too.
So, I pray.
Lord, thank You for the gift of motherhood. Thank You for every season of it, the laughter, the chaos, the growing pains, and the sweet goodbyes that remind me how much I’ve loved.
Thank You for Katelyn, Hunter, Daisy, and Walker. Go before them, Lord. Bless their new home and let it be a place filled with Your peace, laughter, and love. Guide their steps as they walk into this new season and let Your presence dwell richly in every room.
Thank You also for Hannah and Darius. I lift them up to You, asking that You bring clarity where there’s confusion and understanding where there’s distance. Heal what is broken, soften what has grown hard, and let forgiveness and grace bloom where hurt once lived. Knit our hearts together in Your love, Lord, and let Your Spirit lead each of us closer to You and to one another.
Thank You for Lydia and Tiago. I pray that You guide their steps, lead them in Your truth, and bless their relationship so that it reflects Your love and honors You in every way. Bless them as they finish up their studies, Lord, and bring them back together strengthened in their love for You and for each other, rooted firmly in Your purposes for their lives.
Thank You for Joseph. I ask that You open his eyes to the calling You have placed on his life, that he may hear Your voice clearly and surrender fully to You. Lead him into the purpose and plans You designed for him long before he was born and strengthen his heart to walk faithfully in them.
Lord, place Your hand of protection over all four of my children and the families they have or will one day have. Guard them, guide them, and draw them closer to You each day.
And when the quiet moments come for me, remind me that You are near. Comfort me with Your presence and help me to find joy in every season You lead me through. Teach me to let go with grace, to love without clinging, and to trust You more than I ever have before.
In Jesus' precious name I pray, Amen.
Isaiah 46:4 says, “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He; I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” I know the same God who carried me through the sleepless nights and scraped knees will also carry me through this quiet chapter of letting go.
As I close my eyes and breathe in the stillness of this Sunday, I realize something tender but true: letting go isn’t the end of love. It’s the proof of it.
And though my house may soon be quieter, my heart will stay full. Because the God who gave me this family, this calling of “Mama,” is the same God who promises never to leave me.
He is still writing my story.
And even here, in this in-between, I choose to trust His pen.
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