My beautiful grandmother (maternal) passed in 2014 at the age of 100. My mother was very close to her, so I was very observant in her grieving process. Although I never saw my mother cry, she would often say "Kiya, I was talking to Mother this morning." I didn't really know how to respond, so I'd just say, "Oh ok." 

It wasn't until Mom died that I understood the gravity of talking to a deceased parent. It's not something that I regularly find comfort in, but it is something that I find comfort in knowing that I can do. It sounds sooooo weird, but ask anyone who has experienced loss. It is something about telling that deceased love one that you graduated, got a good grade or even got a new job that makes it feel "official."

As a child, my mother would take my siblings and I to our grandmother's house before church on Mother's Day. We would go not to stay, but to cut roses from her rose bushes. The red roses were for my siblings and I, but my grandmother would cut a white rose. Mom explained the purpose behind this tradition and it honestly didn't mean much to me until this Mother's Day when I was given a white rose.

Before any holiday I am faced with the decision of exactly how to spend the occasion. Do I go out of town? Do I keep my normal routine? This year, I did something a little different. I returned to Hillsborough where I preached in the very place Mom and I preached together a few Mother's Days' ago. On that particular Mother's Day, we did a sermonette- Mommy did the first 15 minutes and then I closed.

Returning to this particular church to preach was a first since Mom and Dad passed. As I sat in the pulpit, I noticed the empty space where Mom would have sat. I glanced at the Deacon's corner where Dad used to be. As the choir stood  to give the pre-sermonic song, I noticed something even more familiar than the empty seats. The pianist started playing the song "Going Up Yonder." Mind you, that's the same song that was sung as my mother's body pushed from the alter to the cemetery.  Everything within me wanted to crumble; I wanted to lose it; I wanted to ball up in the fetal position. Yet, none of that happened. My worst fears did not manifest. Instead, I wiped my tears and took the song as a beautiful reminder of my parents' presence with me on that Mother's Day.

It goes without saying that celebrations without my parents are "weird." Thus, graduation was no different. If anything, it was one of the harder milestones to celebrate. You see, unlike other celebrations I've experienced since their deaths', seminary was something that my parents started off with me. They were both so proud of me for attending Emory and pursuing full time ministry.

Hours after learning of Mom's fatal diagnosis, I decided to take a semester off. However, Mom wasn't having it. "Kiya, I won't be here." I thought she meant "here" as in the state of sickness; I thought she was professing her faith that she would be healed and would not need me to care for her. Hours later I learned that "here" was in reference to being physically present on earth.

Yet, in the weeks leading up to my graduation I found myself "here" and wanting nothing more than my parents to be "here" with me.  I didn't send out any invitations nor did I plan a huge celebration.  My amazing husband was so excited for me and my closest friends made their way to Atlanta without my nudging. It was like everyone just kind of fell into place without my orchestration. Even my graduation photos were taken very last minute, as we happened to have a photo shoot planned for something else and George brought my cap and gown.

After graduation, I literally went back to our Airbnb and slept. There was no festive dinner or Atlanta shopping. I was so grateful for the degree, but going through the motions of graduation exhausted all of my energy and took everything I had. I wasn't sad; I wasn't upset. I just wanted to sleep.

Earlier this week I graduated from Emory University with my Master of Divinity degree. While this was certainly a huge milestone in my life, there was a numbing aspect that I couldn't get around. You see, in 2014 my mother prophesied to me that I was going to move to Atlanta. I gave her one of my "looks" (in the most respectful way, of course lol) and said "Mommy, I am not going to Atlanta." Long story short, by August 2015 I'd moved to Atlanta and enrolled in seminary at Emory.

Thus graduating from Emory marked the fulfillment of the prophesy. And for just one moment, I lost it; I felt completely lost. Throughout my life God spoke to Mom and she would convey God's messages to me. Yes, I heard from Him on my own, but there was something about the reassurance from Mom that solidified my understanding. But now that the prophesy was fulfilled, how would I know what to do next? All I wanted was for Mom to tell me what was next.