INTRO
This is a reflection on my mother—on the sacred courage of continuing, the gentle defiance of joy, and the quiet testimony of a life anchored in the promise that God is within her; she will not fall. It is a story of faith that steadies the heart, of grace that carries what the body cannot, and of a light born of God’s presence—one that softly, faithfully illuminates even the darkest of places.
A Living Testimony of Psalm 46:5
An excerpt from Book 4 (Due to launch Spring 2026) – This Little Light of Mine- Commissioned To Shine
She sat in her lift chair, soft curls of long gray hair falling gently over her shoulders. And there it was again—that unmistakable spark. A flicker of fire still dancing in her eyes as she told another sassy story about how Dad was, as usual, completely wrong… and how she, of course, was completely right. It’s an ongoing debate between them—one that somehow still keeps them both smiling, even on the hardest days.
My gaze drifted to the table beside her, where her tea rested on a simple coaster bearing a quiet declaration of truth:
“God is within her; she will not fall.” — Psalm 46:5
The words caught in my chest.
Because if there were ever a life that embodied that scripture, it was hers.
MSA has taken much from my mother—movement, independence, certainty about tomorrow. Her days are undeniably numbered in a way no child ever wants to face. And yet… still she laughs. Still she smiles. Still she finds joy in the smallest of mercies and mischief in the ordinary.
She can no longer run. She cannot walk any distance. But she shuffles—with a walker—and she takes joy in that. Even when her knees tremble and her body shakes, we know what to do now. We sing. A silly song. “Gettin’ jiggy with it.” And she laughs—deep, full, defiant laughter—because joy is still hers to choose.
She doesn’t travel the way she once did. But sometimes I call, and she’s laughing because she’s been “vacationing” in Italy—through a travel show on TV. And in her laughter, the walls of the room fall away. Her world expands again.
One of the greatest lessons this journey has taught me is this:
Very often in life, we do not get to choose what happens to us. We don’t get to preview the diagnosis, the accident, the loss, or the misfortune that may come our way. But with the grace of God as our strength and our shield, we do get to choose how we face it.
With grace.
With hope.
With love.
And yes—with humor.
What a gift that choice is.
So often I hear people say that if they ever became a burden in their later years, they would choose not to live. They speak of care homes. Of MAID. And this is not judgment—every journey is deeply personal. But I can say this, without hesitation: I am profoundly blessed to walk alongside my mother in this season.
To assist her.
To witness her faith.
To watch her worship God from a chair.
To hear her pray faithfully.
To see her still dream.
Had she chosen differently, I would have missed these holy moments. I would never have seen how God’s grace and mercy shine brightest not in noise or spectacle—but in stillness.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Psalm 16:8 says, “I will not be shaken.”
And though my mother’s body may tremble, her faith has not. Her love has not. Her resilience, her hope, her tenacity, her humor, her sass—none of it has been shaken.
She is clothed in strength and dignity. (Proverbs 31:25)
And oh, how her light shines.
Not just to brighten her own world—but to guide others through the dark. To show us how to live fully, faithfully, courageously—even when the night is long.
This is This Little Light of Mine.
And she is letting it shine.
Reflection
Watching my mother walk this journey has taught me that faith is not proven by what we can do, but by how we trust when so much is taken from us. Her life reminds me that strength does not always look like movement or independence—it often looks like presence, gratitude, and choosing joy one moment at a time. In the face of uncertainty, she has shown me how deeply God’s nearness matters, how laughter can still be holy, and how hope can remain steady even when the body grows weary. Through her, I have learned that we may not get to choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we live within them—anchored in faith, wrapped in love, and carried by grace that never lets us fall.
Prayer
A Prayer of Light and Steadfast Hope
God of mercy and nearness,
Thank You for Your presence that never leaves us—
for being within us, steadying us, carrying us, even when the road grows uncertain.
I thank You for the gift of my mother—
for her courage, her laughter, her faith, and the quiet way her life reflects Your light.
When her body is weak, be her strength.
When her days feel heavy, be her peace.
When words are few, let Your love speak loudly.
Teach us to cherish each moment we are given.
To lean into one another with tenderness.
To choose joy, even in the sacred in-between.
May her light continue to shine—
not only to brighten her own world,
but to gently illuminate the way for others walking through dark places.
We place our hope in You, Lord,
trusting that Your grace is sufficient,
Your mercy is new each morning,
and Your love will hold us—now and always.
Amen.
Declaration
I declare that even in uncertain seasons, God’s presence remains our steady ground.
That when strength looks different than it once did, grace rises to meet us there.
That joy can still be chosen, laughter can still be holy, and love can still be abundant.
I declare that we are not defined by diagnoses, but by the faith that carries us through them.
That God is within us—steadfast, faithful, unchanging—and because of Him, we will not fall.
And I declare this light will continue to shine—
not just to brighten our own lives,
but to gently illuminate the way for others who are walking through dark places.
May we walk forward together, anchored in love, strengthened by faith, and held by the quiet assurance that God is near.