I woke up and saw a missed call from the hospital. I called her room, no answer. I  called the front desk and was immediately transferred to the doctor on rotation. My mother had crashed and was in the ICU. He asked if I wanted CPR if she coded. I needed to make a decision and come into the hospital as soon as possible.

It was the wee hours of the morning, and I made it to the hospital fairly quickly. I grabbed my mother’s hand—it was ice cold. The nurses were talking to me, but I had tuned out, only to hear “you should get her husband if you can.” Through all of her hospitalizations, it was never this bleak. I had never been called in during the middle of the night, nor had they ever asked to bring her husband in. Reality hit and the room started closing in. Another code was called and within moments, a dozen nurses surrounded me as I was placed on the stretcher and wheeled to the maternity ward for observation. I was inconsolable.

I had talked to my mother just a few hours prior to this, she had been taken from the ER to a room once she was admitted. Like anyone else, she wasn’t impressed with the hospital food, and she let me know it. Everything seemed normal . . . until it wasn’t.

My family later went to the hospital together as the breathing tube was set to be removed. You know the scenario, we didn’t know what the outcome would be. Despite the odds as she was weaned off sedation, Mom began reaching for the tube to be removed. She was awake and waving at us through the glass and her tears. As happy as she was to see us, she was equally exhausted. We left in good spirits. I called the next day around 8:30 in the morning to speak with her. The nurse assured me Mom’s stats were good, everything was fine, Mom was stable, and they were working on getting a phone in her room.

Only, the next call didn’t go to me. They called my brother directly because they didn’t want a repeat of a few days prior. We were needed again; Mom wasn’t responding. The nurse said my mom had eaten breakfast and was doing well. She stepped out to check on another patient, and mom crashed. Although we gave her the day to bounce back, her 02 levels grew beyond repair—they “were not sustainable with life.” There was nothing else that could be done. That conversation I had a few nights prior, when my mom complained about the food, was the last time I would ever have an earthly conversation with my mother.

Moving forward, everything was a blur. I canceled the baby shower scheduled for that coming Saturday; the dress and flower sash my mother and I had picked out were returned, unopened. I couldn’t bear the thought of a baby shower without her.

We had the funeral the following week. The days came and went. I wore my mom’s shirt when I went to the hospital to have my sweet baby girl. I cried while I waited for a room and then again when my daughter was delivered. I wanted to wake up and be relieved that the previous happenings were that of a nightmare, but they weren’t. This was my new reality.

I was now a mom, with a mom in heaven. The very first pictures of my daughter were on the baby blanket my mother had gotten her. I somehow scurried my way through postpartum and grief, reassuring my son that mommy was okay even though I wasn’t. The grim truth is my life will never be the same, and let’s be honest, a girl never stops needing her mom.

I named my daughter after the angel Gabriel early on in my pregnancy. Before this story unraveled. Briella, a literal translation of “strength from God,” I felt settled knowing my daughter had a name with biblical roots. Her middle name, Ansley, is a beautiful fusion of my mother and my middle name, paying homage to the lineage of resilient women before me.

Call it what you will, but I have learned to notice God’s assurances along the way, the ones that tell me my mom is with our Savior and everything is okay. She’s got me, He is faithful. Briella was born with the cord wrapped around her neck and needed CPR in the moments directly after she was born. I think the NICU team worked on her for about 20 minutes before they handed her to me—it was an eternity. Even still, Briella was perfect and unharmed. Hey, Mom.

As we drove away from the cemetery after laying her to rest, a hummingbird flew beside my car for a second. Hummingbirds were her favorite. Hey, mom.

Sometime after she was born, I discovered the stork bite on the back of Briella’s head; legend is that a stork bite is a kiss from an angel prior to delivery. Hey, Mom.

It had never happened to me before, but as I watered my garden, a hummingbird landed on the fence next to me and watched. Hey, Mom.

We sang one of her favorite hymns in church today. Hey, Mom. Someone made corn pudding this year for Christmas. Hey, Mom. Dad accidentally packed Mom’s pajama shirt for Christmas. Hey, Mom. The story coming from my aunt a few weeks before she passed, telling the tale of my mom as a little girl, sitting in her rocking chair, singing “I’ll Fly Away Oh Glory.” Hey, Mom.

Even with these assurances, the loss is heavy. As I experienced being a mom to an infant again, this time without my own mother, my number one call was no longer to the reassuring voice on the other end of the line, but instead, to my brother. I can’t ask my mom if my sweet baby acts like I did or how or if I should cut her hair. Or if it’s normal for the spunky little sparkle fairy to keep pulling out her hairbows. But I can tell my baby girl how great her grandmother was. I can rest knowing that all things work together for good. I know that whether I have a good day and remember my mother with smiles, or if I have a bad day and pass the circus peanuts with tears in my eyes, God is with me.

Unfortunately, the daily struggle of knowing my phone will never ring with an incoming call from my mom has become too familiar. My phone rings with a sound that has become synonymous with disappointment; those six redundant calls each day from my mom are never going to come, and the pain of that realization never quite goes away.

But, you know what else has become a constant? Jesus. He has shown me through this experience what it means to have unwavering faith, and He continues to be the light in the darkness of my mother’s death (1 John 1:5). As a woman with faith in the Lord, I find a certain peace in knowing that the loss and heaviness is not mine to bear alone. No matter what emotions, distress, or situation I face, I am held tenderly and cared for.

Briella, strength from God. God knew all these plans, and He saw it fit to give me my darling girl to show me the world is still beautiful. There is grace and tender mercy. “Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you” (Isaiah 41:10).

With so much love to have and be given, my mother’s legacy lives on. The Lord shows His compassion to me and weeps with me (John 11:35) through my pain. He gave me my daughter, my earthly strength to continue on in a hurricane. He gave me so much in this life to thank Him for. Echoes of mercy, whispers of love. Oh, what a beautiful name it is.

Originally published on the author’s blog