Amen

I think I was about seven when I peeked into Mama Henrietta’s bedroom early one morning. Uncle Bush had already left to do some work on their large farm down South. Mom Henrietta was on her knees, praying by her bed. Up until then, I had been taught to pray at night before bed, and in my child mind, I wondered why she was praying in the morning. I don’t remember asking her why, but the sight of her kneeling and praying as the sun rose never left me.

From the age of six, my mom was raised by Mom Henrietta, and I imagine she saw that same scene many times. It would be years before I followed suit, but now, throughout morning prayer, meditation, and into the evening, I hold to the knowing that God is omnipresent, that God is good, and that He loves us—all of us. I trust that He sees me and knows me, whether life is going my way or not. With that belief comes an unspoken amen to all of it.

To every season and every purpose under the sun.

To the time to be born, and the time to die.

To the time to weep, and the time to laugh.

To the time to mourn, and the time to dance.

None of it is without purpose.

The Bible says that God knows what we need before we ask. Even though we are not informing Him of anything He doesn’t already know, He still invites us to talk. That truth shaped how Mom prayed, how I learned to pray, and how I continue to pray—even in grief.

This is a season of firsts. And of lasts.

Mother’s Day this year is the first I spent without my mom. A few days after Mother’s Day is her birthday—she would have been 85. This fall will mark the first time in over 60 years that I won’t hear her saying or singing “happy birthday” to me.

And there were lasts I didn’t know were lasts when they happened—our last Mother’s Day brunch, our last shopping trip together, the last time I heard her pray aloud, the last gift I wrapped just for her.

I only missed one Thanksgiving with Mom in my lifetime, and I never missed a Christmas. Now, it’s a new way to be. Tears come spontaneously, and somewhat unpredictably. I think about the many others who’ve experienced this kind of season, and I know—it will be okay, okay, okay, as Mom used to say.

I have a voicemail recording of Mom singing to me for my birthday last year. I will listen to it this year, and the next, until I stop. We will recall Mom’s prayers of gratitude at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and say, Amen. It is so. I keep listening to “A Song for Mama” by Boyz II Men. That song always brought tears of gratitude when Mom was alive, and now it brings a different kind of gratitude—mingled with grief.

Above all is God—in control, loving us, and welcoming His children home. Both birth and death are precious to Him. I reflect on the truth that Mom and I existed in God before we were born. That before she arrived here on earth—18 years before I did—we already knew each other. And we knew how it would end. And we said Amen, Amen, Amen.

Author: Delphia Simmons

Delphia Simmons, Founder of Thrive Detroit, dedicated to amplifying voices and fostering community through storytelling.