Scribed In Light

There’s a day we don’t talk about enough.
A day when the phone no longer rings with our mother’s voice.
A day when her laughter becomes a memory instead of music.
A day when the chair at the table is empty, but her presence lingers like perfume in the air.

It comes for all of us. Sometimes suddenly, sometimes after a long season of watching time take its toll. But it comes.

And when it does, we find ourselves longing for just one more—
one more hug, one more cup of coffee in her kitchen, one more holiday together, one more conversation, one more unsolicited piece of advice we once brushed off, one more opportunity to hold her in your eyes, and one more chance to hear her voice. The list just goes on, and on…

But here’s what I’ve learned—often too late: we spend so much of our lives seeing our mother only through the lens of what she was to us. “Mom.”

We forget she was a woman long before she became our mother.

A woman with dreams, talents, and quirks all her own. She laughed with friends, had her heart broken, made mistakes, danced to her favorite songs, and maybe even once bought a pair of shoes she couldn’t afford but had to have.

She wasn’t only the keeper of packed lunches and the giver of curfews. She was an individual, a soul stitched together with hopes and hurts, strength and softness. She was more than the arms that held us—she was a full person who once had arms eager to reach for the world.

And too often, it isn’t until she’s gone that we start flipping through old photos and suddenly see it: her beauty, her individuality, her story beyond “Mom.”

That realization can break your heart and open it at the same time.

So here’s my plea, while time is still called today:

• Don’t just ask your mom how she’s doing—ask her who she was.
• Let her tell you about the girl she used to be before she became your everything.
• Notice the woman behind the apron, behind the advice, behind the worry lines.
• See her not only as your mother, but as a fellow human—imperfect, radiant, complex, resilient.
• And gently remember this: love is a two-way street. As much as we long for her presence, she longs for ours. Don’t just receive her love—offer yours back, freely and often, before it’s too late.

Because one day, you’ll ache for those stories, those details, those pieces of her humanity. And if you never asked, they’ll be gone with her.

For many, this is tender territory. Some of us carried complicated, painful histories with our mothers — memories that required years of sorting, therapy, and prayer. If you’re reading this and recognize that ache, know this: your pain does not erase your capacity to love or to build something new. You can become the safe place you never had. That work — messy and holy — is worth every step.

And here’s the kicker—just as our mothers were more than “Mom,” so are we.
One day our own children will look back and see us too. Perhaps, if we are lucky―not just as parents, but as people. And maybe then, they’ll wish they had asked more, listened more, laughed more, lingered longer.

That’s why it matters that we model this. When our children watch us honor our parents—when they see us lean in, listen, and give of ourselves—they learn how to do the same. The cycle of love repeats itself. It becomes the legacy we leave behind.

Time doesn’t pause, but we can press pause in the moments we have.
Soak her in. The mother. The woman. The friend. The fighter. The dreamer.

Because one day, it will only be memory. And memory is precious—but presence is holy.

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“Today, while she is still here, see her. Not just as Mom, but as the remarkable woman she has always been. Offer her your time, your laughter, your love—and in doing so, show your children how to keep the cycle alive.”

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“We are not bound to repeat history; we are invited to redeem it.” —Anonymous

“…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.” — Isaiah 61:3

With hard-won grace,

Tina N. Campbell | Scribed In Light