Rising Beyond Loss

“The death of a mother is the first sorrow we weep without her arms around us.”

— Author Unknown

I woke up one morning to a painful truth: I’m an orphan.

I’ve kept that reality at arm’s length, too afraid to let it sink in. My mother’s passing on June 5, 2026, has left a hollow space in my life. Her absence feels profound—the sense of being anchored in the world is gone. She was my shield from mortality, my witness to childhood, my keeper of memories, my first storyteller, my champion, encourager, prayer partner, and best friend.

With her gone, I feel exposed, next in line to face the unknown. No one remains who remembers the moments that shaped me. My hedge of protection is gone. I am no longer “somebody’s child,” and that realization leaves me feeling untethered, incomplete, and profoundly alone. This is my new normal, and if I am honest, it terrifies me.

Yet, amid my grief, memories of our years together come rushing back—the laughter, the tears, the way we served side by side in ministry, those powerful Tuesday prayer times and hymn sings, and how our shared faith grew stronger through every trial.

“The bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved.

But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart...”

— Anne Lamott

My mother’s wisdom, her relentless prayers, and her unwavering insistence that I develop an authentic relationship with Jesus still echo in my soul. She never let me believe I could be carried by her faith alone—her words were more than lessons; they were warnings, and they shaped the very core of who I am today.

As I reflect on her life—a life marked by worship, unshakable prayer, and a fierce love for God’s Word—I recognize those foundations have held me up more than I even realized. When I am overwhelmed by loneliness and loss, I sense the same God who carried my mother through suffering and ultimately called her home is now carrying me.

 

The reality is raw:

My faith must stand on its own. I am forced to confront my beliefs and wrestle with whether I will truly trust God in the darkness or surrender to despair.

Most days, I feel like I am tumbling into an abyss, desperate for something to hold onto. Yet every time I am on the verge of letting go, something pulls me back from the edge—a presence, a strength not my own. It’s Jesus, refusing to let me be overcome by grief and insisting that my story is not over. This is not just comfort; it is a call to rise, claim my identity, and walk forward in faith, even when the way is brutal and unclear.

“The death of our loved one forces us to write a new invisible name tag.

It forces us to grapple with who we are apart from our loved one...

While our identity may change after loss, our identity in Christ does not.”

— Lisa Appelo

What truly comes next after such a loss? How do I reconstruct my sense of self when my identity feels shattered, and how do I summon the courage to face this harsh, unchosen reality—leaning wholly on Jesus, even as grief threatens to consume me?

The word “orphan” once seemed distant and unimaginable to me, yet now it defines my existence. Amid overwhelming sorrow and disorientation, my faith becomes not just a comfort but a lifeline—an anchor that refuses to let me drift into despair. The deeper reality is that, in Christ, I am never truly orphaned. Through Him, I am adopted into a divine family and assured an eternal future with my Creator. This truth does not erase the ache, but it gives my suffering purpose and hope, reminding me that God’s presence and promise of a permanent home are unshakable, even in the darkest valley. From this truth, I can begin to live the new normal.

“This is a faithful and trustworthy saying:

If we died with Him, we will also live with Him.”

— 1 Timothy 2:11

My mother’s passing was not an end, but a profound testament to a life lived in unwavering faith and obedience to Christ. She is now fully alive—free from pain and untouched by sorrow.

I have never encountered, and never will, a person whose resolute, remarkable, and relentless faith so courageously confronted adversity, shattered barriers, and carried her through storms that would have undone others. Her journey was not merely one of endurance, but of victory—she finished well. There will never be another Lillie Mae Barnett.

In His deep mercy, God granted me the privilege of witnessing her final transition, a moment that revealed her relationship with Him as the bridge that carried her home. As she was passing into the arms of Jesus, and with the few minutes I had with her, I sang Amazing Grace, anointed her head with oil and began praying strongly and loudly for her, I thanked her for all she had done for me in my life and then I put my phone to her ear to listen to a song she introduced to me in January: See What The Lord Has Done, a song of testimony, gratitude, and faith and breakthroughs. It celebrates God's faithfulness in fulfilling promises of healing and, ultimately, of heaven, and encourages believers to trust Him during periods of waiting:

See what the Lord has done

See what the Lord has done

What we've waited for has come to pass

See what the Lord has done

— Nathaniel Bassey

As her breathing grew worse and more labored, at the moment of the final word and musical note in the song, she breathed her last breath. For five months, my mom suffered, waited, worshipped, and thanked Him, and God has fulfilled His promises.

Even as loss carves deep wounds, separation is never final. The relationship I have with Jesus is not a platitude but a guarantee—one that bridges the agony of present absence with the hope of ultimate reunion. In these raw moments, the Holy Spirit does not just console me but calls me to reckon with God’s presence, urging me to wrestle with my grief and move toward a new normal. This is the place where I must choose to keep going.

So, what is the new normal? It is not mere survival or passive acceptance, but the intentional pursuit of legacy—carrying forward what was entrusted, even when the path is marked by loss.

The call now is to advance with unwavering determination, to finish well, and to reclaim the purpose for which I was uniquely created. Life will never be the same, but in the face of grief and change, I must choose to rely on God’s sustaining power and the steadfast support of my family and community. That is how I will step into what comes next.

To honor my mother is to refuse complacency:

It is to live a life radically surrendered to Christ,

to love boldly, and to ensure that His story is proclaimed

through every action and word.

 

I miss my mom—not just her voice or her smile, but the peace of her presence. I miss her soprano voice filling the house every day with hymns and worship songs. I miss the sounds of her daily cries and intercession for her children, grandchildren, and family and friends, and the wholesome meals and fellowship. The challenges and struggles we shared.

I miss my mom.

There’s something about a mother’s love that stays with you, even when she’s not around. Her words and wisdom still guide me, her prayers still cover me, and her lessons still echo in my heart. No one can ever take her place because she wasn’t just a person; she was home. Sometimes I wish I could call her, hear her laugh, or tell her how much I love her just once more, and that I understand things now, or even brainstorm and collaborate on the next outreach project.

I miss my mom.

Even in her absence, her undying love gives me the strength to keep going. I hold on to her memory with gratitude, remembering the advice, the hugs, even just a few days before she died, and the sacrifices she made for her family and community. She lives in every kind thing I do, every smile I give, every victory I achieve, and every opportunity to move that much closer to fulfilling my God-given calling because a mother’s love never truly leaves.

It lives forever in the heart.

I love you, Mom, forever.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit."

— Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

Copyright 2026 William S. Barnett. All rights reserved.

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