Before, I would call Mama. Phone on speaker, her voice in my ear like a podcast made just for me. Now I dial and nobody picks up. This is what losing both parents did to my faith — and the Father who never stopped picking up.
March 23, 2006 — the date written inside the cover of a Bible I received at twelve and did not truly open for nearly twenty years. What followed were degrees, careers, continents, and loss. This is the story of what it cost me. And what I found when I finally came home to it.
I was good at it — the milestones, the career, the identity of a woman who had everything figured out. What I never saw coming was the day I would walk away from all of it. But in the quiet of a life I never planned, something I had been missing finally came into view.
Within nine months, I lost both my parents — thousands of miles away, pregnant, with a toddler in my arms. It felt cruel. It felt unbearable. But this is also my testimony: God never left me in the storm. And grief, I learned, can become the very place where faith begins to grow.
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