A Mother’s Love

My mother loved people. Fully. Without conditions. Always with a big smile and a warmth that flowed from her. She embodied love and everyone who knew her felt it.

I was eleven years old and terrified and going through eighteen months of chemotherapy. My mother slept beside me through the nights, held my head, looked into my eyes. And said repeatedly, “You'll be fine.” I felt her deep love.

Every hospital door I didn't want to touch, she opened. No questions. She saw what I needed, and gave it. That was her way. That was who she was. Sleeping next to her and inhaling the enchanting smell of her Mary Kay night cream that filled the room and made everything okay.

Throughout my childhood, she said, “If someone doesn't treat you well, you rise above it. Do not change your behavior.” She never wavered from that belief. She embodied it. Her kindness was not conditional. It was simply who she was.

Her love of God was clear, not requiring explanation. When I needed prayer, I called her — she would write down my requests, and the requests of my friends when they asked. She would have a row of post it notes lining the counter. Names, Requests. And special ones in her Jesus Calling book. We joked about it: she had the direct channel.

She was faith, walking around.

My mother’s love was unbounded, our connection deep. When I had a near drowning incident while white water rafting in Costa Rica in my thirties, upon my return, in a taxi cab, my mom said, “Catherine, I dreamed I slipped into a river. Almost drowned. Then I woke up.” This was the same day. She felt it from thousands of miles away. She was with me in the water.

Her love had no borders. No limits that distance could impose. I told her about a mystical experience when I started to see spirits, and she received it the way she received everything: I see you. No judgment. Just acceptance. It always felt like grace.

Over the past few years, I asked her regularly: “Do you have any fears? Any worries?” Every time, the same answer: No. And a smile.

The last time I asked was June 3rd — two days before I left for Greece. We looked into each other's eyes. We made a deal. I'd be gone two weeks. She'd be fine. God had different plans.

When the call came, I was in Amsterdam, about to board a flight for Athens. I couldn’t believe it. I was angry. She had asked me, half a dozen times over the past year, “Promise me you will be with me when it's my time.”

From across the ocean, I held her in my heart every moment. I felt her love and held her in prayers. And a few days later, she let go — peacefully.

We discussed many times how she’d come back to see me when she died. We landed on a blue jay. A few days after we arrived home, I received a plant from a friend and nestled in the leaves was a blue jay.

The veil is thin. She knew this too. We laughed about how she’ll guide me from the other side. She’d say, “I’ll try…not sure how, but I will.” I’ve received a few more messages this week!

Her deep wish for all of us is simple: Be happy. Love one another. Jesus' mission was love. She embodied his message.

I'm going to miss the way she said my name. How is my Catherine?!Her cooing sound when she saw me. The way she'd reach for my hands and squeeze them.

I remember a prayer by the 13th-century mystic Meister Eckhart: If the only prayer you ever say is Thank you, that is enough.

Thank you, Mom.

You will always be my best friend. My inspiring guide. My go-to.

I love you.