It’s Not Okay to Let Go Yet

Mommy,

You hear people say it at the end – spoken softly, bravely, as an act of love: 

“It’s okay. You can let go now.”

I understand the love behind those words.

I understand the mercy in them.

They are meant to comfort. To release. To make room for peace when holding on has become too heavy.

I have reached the age where many of my dearest friends have already lost at least one parent – most of them friends of yours and Daddy’s. I have watched them learn new languages of grief, learn how to keep going while carrying absence. I know that saying goodbye is, for some, the final gift they can offer.

And still... I could never say that to you.

Not yet. Not now. Not even close.

Because it is not okay.

There are still so many mornings I want you to wake up to. So many ordinary days I want you to live fully, slowly, joyfully. So many moments I want you to witness not as a memory, but as a presence. I want you to laugh more. To rest more. To be spoiled more. To be cared for in the way you have cared for everyone else your entire life.

I want you to enjoy being with my children. Not just watching them grow in photos or stories, but being there – hearing their questions, receiving their hugs, catching their laughter mid-air. I want them to know you not as an idea or a legacy, but as Lola in the flesh: warm, steady and endlessly giving.

You have spent your life giving yourself away in the quietest, most faithful ways.

As a nurse, you poured yourself into the care of others; carrying not just charts and duties but people’s pain, fear and hope. You rose not by demanding recognition, but because your integrity and competence spoke for you. You served with excellence long before titles followed.

As a community leader, you gave your time, your energy, your heart – often when you were already tired – because you believed that service was not an obligation, but a calling.

And even now, in retirement, you have not learned how to stop giving. You still wake thinking of others. You still worry about everyone before yourself. You still stretch yourself thin so that someone else might feel less burdened, less alone.

This is who you are. And this is why I want you to rest.

Maybe part of this urgency comes from your operation last year – a moment that quietly reminded me how fragile everything is. On the surface, nothing seemed alarming. Everything was expected to be simple, manageable, ordinary. But my heart remembered that your own mother, my grandmother, went in for the same simple procedure – and never made it back home. So I prayed harder, held my breath longer, and learned how deeply I am not ready to imagine a world without you. And when that season passed, I thanked God in ways words still can’t hold.

Because one day, Ma, the words “It’s okay, you can let go now” will come.

And when that day comes, it will break me.

People say my name suits me – that I am joyful, that I carry light easily, that I brighten rooms. And maybe that is true, because you taught me how to love life, how to give, how to hope even when things are heavy.

But the day I give you back to Heaven… that will be the day my light dims.

Maybe not forever, but deeply. Irrevocably.

Because some lights are not replaceable. 

Some joy is borrowed, not owned. And so much of mine has always come from you.

So no, Mama – not yet. Please.

I am not ready to give you up to God anytime soon, even if I know you belong to Him more than you belong to me. 

I still need you here. Still want you here. Still want to watch you laugh with my children, still want to hear your voice calling my name, still want to see you rest into a life where you are finally the one being cared for.

One day, when my hands can no longer hold you, I trust that Heaven will – gently, completely, and with the same love you have given all your life.

But today is not that day.

Today, I want to say this instead:

Stay.

Stay and enjoy.

Stay and receive.

Stay and let us take care of you now.

Stay because there is still so much beauty waiting for you.

Stay because your story is still unfolding in the lives you shaped.

Stay because your grandchildren still need your presence more than your memory.

Not just for your grandchildren. I still need you too. I always will.

No matter how old I grow, my heart in your hands remains forever young – because I will always be your child. And to my final breath, you will remain my life’s enduring love.

Happy birthday, Mommy.

You are deeply loved. Fiercely cherished. Still very much needed – not for what you do, but for who you are.

And no, it is not okay to let go yet.

Not even close.

And so I pray.

Lord, thank You for the gift of our mother – my children's grandmother – for the life You breathed into her, and for the love she has poured out so freely all her days. Thank You for her strength, her generosity, her quiet faithfulness, and the way her presence has always felt like home.

We place her in Your care and ask for many, many, many, many more years for her – years of health and beautiful strength, of laughter and rest, of joy that surprises her and peace that stays. Teach her how to receive the same tenderness she has spent her life giving away.

Bless her days with lightness.

Bless her body with renewed energy.

Bless her heart with the assurance that she is deeply loved, deeply needed, and never alone.

And when I worry – as daughters do – help me to trust that she is held by You even more securely than she is held by me. Keep her safe, Lord. Keep her joyful. Keep her close to us for as long as You allow.

We entrust her to You with gratitude, with hope, and with a love that will never outgrow its need for her.

AMEN.