My mother never got her seventieth birthday trip.

She died at the tender age of 52, six weeks before I graduated from undergrad. As a Christian, and now as a more mature believer, I have learned to trust God’s providence, His sovereign hand working all things for our good, even when I cannot understand it. Her death shook me to my core.

Mommy was my North Star and my heart. She was an icon, a larger than life woman who carried main character energy long before anyone had a name for it. She was style. She was leadership that led by serving. She was a girl’s girl, a homemaker, and a bridge builder. She was funny, and somehow she did all of it with a quiet, ever steady presence. Mommy was truly one of one, and she left behind a gap so wide that nearly 20 years later I still feel it every single day.

Shortly after she passed, I watched the movie The Women. In one scene, a mother sits with her daughter in the middle of a great loss and tells her, “When your mother dies, you lose your protection. The buffer between you and the end of the line is gone.”

That line landed deep. It named a feeling I did not yet have the words, or honestly the maturity, to say out loud. When Mommy died, a layer of protection was removed. A layer of reality I had never had to think about was suddenly gone. No amount of aunties, mentors, or the numerous loved ones who rushed in to fill the gap could change that, since it was never a gap anyone else could fill. It was my name being called. It was me stepping up to bat, moving from the sidelines to center stage, under a spotlight I never asked for, with only time to tell whether I was ready. Life will do that. It will move through a turn of events and pressure test you as though you signed up for the exam. That was my baptism by fire into adulthood.

Even having survived the war, I now realize how much my parents were able to shield me. Given everything we lived through, they still found ways to protect my naivety and my innocence.

With Mommy’s death, that layer was gone. At 21, it was my turn.

Overnight, I was living in a different world.

The Celebration She Missed

A few years ago, scrolling through Facebook, I came across photos of my mother’s dear friends celebrating their 70th birthdays. There were trips to Dubai, to the Caribbean, to countries across Africa. These were the women I grew up around. I remembered the countless times I had been in their homes and they had been in ours. I knew without a doubt that if Mommy were here, she would have been right there with them, glass raised.

My mother was a hard worker, and I mean hard. When our family came to the United States, she took on several jobs to make sure we were well cared for. At one point she held three full time jobs at the same time, and not one of her bosses knew about the others. Somehow she was still the star at every single one. She brought home awards regularly. She did not just do the job; she built programs from the ground up. Mommy would see a gap, start something to fill it, and keep it running while she clocked into job number two. Tell me my mama had ADHD without telling me my mama had ADHD. Three full time jobs, side hustles, a household to run, and she still made you feel like the most important person in the room.

When cancer came, chemo and its devastating effects quickly used up her sick leave. I will never forget how her coworkers donated their own leave to her sick bank so she could have all the time she needed. At her wake, after hearing tribute after tribute, one of her bosses turned to us, confused, and asked how many full time jobs she actually had. The answer was three. She was excellent at all three.

Mommy had so many plans. I remember her talking with my father about the dreams she had for when their “building season” was over, and how much she looked forward to traveling. We had fancy china stored in the cabinet, waiting for the right occasion.

So as I watched her friends celebrate a milestone I knew she had been so looking forward to, I was gutted all over again.

Grief looks different at every stage of life. As I age, I find myself wondering what our relationship would be now. I look at my boys and wish she had been here to pour into them, so they too could know what it feels like to be wholeheartedly loved by Muriel Diggs. The Lord, in His providence, chose not to grant us that.

Hillman, Then and Now

A Different World is my favorite television show. I could not even name a second, because nothing comes close.

In undergrad I had a work study job making minimum wage. The deal with my parents was simple: I could move off campus as long as they covered rent, and I was responsible for everything else. That little check covered my gas to and from school and every one of my bills. Needless to say, my budget was tight. Apart from Walmart, the Old Navy clearance rack, and $1 Tuesday movies, there was no discretionary fund. So when A Different World came out on DVD, you know your girl saved every little penny for that four disc set. We put that thing to use! That set followed me all the way to grad school. When Netflix had the good sense to bring the series to streaming, I put that to use too. It is not uncommon for me to pull up my account and see A Different World on rotation yet again.

So when we learned Hillman was getting a reboot, your girl was hyped.

Last month, Netflix released the new A Different World, and I finished it soon after. I was not disappointed. What did disappoint me was how free people felt to drag OUR Whitley Gilbert, and the woman who brought her to life, Jasmine Guy, simply for having aged.

Ms. Guy answered them with grace: “The internet can be brutal to women as we grow older. It asks us to celebrate life while criticizing every sign that we’ve lived it.”

It left me wondering: do they not know what an honor it is to watch our loved ones grow older?

What I Would Give

What I would give to sit in the salon with Muriel while she dyed her hair, because one thing for certain and two things for sure, that hair would still be jet black. What I would give to call her up and ask about her experience with menopause, because this perimenopause thing is for the birds. What I would give to see her finally slow down and reap the harvest of her labor, to watch her board that flight to Dubai with her girls.

I wish she had been here to walk me through divorce and betrayal, through starting over, and to watch her step into being a grandmother. My oldest son is so much like me, and I would love for her to see him growing up. I would ask her how she did it, how she parented a daughter like me. Most of all, I would ask her how to be kind to myself and balance it all.

My sister recently earned a big promotion. Ever the shy one, she did not want anyone to know. I could not help but think that if Mommy were still here, everyone would have gotten a phone call. More likely, a whole party would have been thrown, and a time would have been had, permission or not.

At Their Feet

In our Liberian tradition, it is an honor to serve your elders. Age is not something to hide; it is something to sit beneath and learn from. Nothing makes me happier than getting our elders talking.

This year, we celebrated Sarah Carey’s 90th birthday. Now, nobody in our family calls her Sarah. To us, she is Aunty Tetha. In Liberia, Tetha is what you call an elder woman you love and respect, and it means sister. Technically, she is my cousin. In every way that matters, she has been a grandmother to me my whole life. She was raised by my grandparents, and she was my grandfather’s favorite. When she left their home to pursue her education, my grandfather made her a promise: once she was settled, he would send her my mother, his favorite child.

He kept his word. From the time my mother was in the sixth grade, she left rural Liberia to live with Aunty Tetha, and she stayed under her roof until the day she married my father. Before Mommy was anyone’s mother, Aunty Tetha was the one pouring into her.

Now she absolutely adores my youngest. Just as my grandfather once poured into her and completely spoiled her, she is doing the same with my boys. She told my children about their great grandfather, who passed in the 1970s, and she tied my baby to the legacy of his lineage. I can look at pictures and see the resemblance between my mother, her father, and now my son. Aunty Tetha could tell him something a photograph never could: that his calm but commanding presence came not only from his grandmother, but from her father as well.

Make Room

In a time when we love to throw on a filter or let AI give us that perfect finish (yes, I am preaching to myself too), we have to understand the honor in watching the people we love grow older. Every gray hair, every laugh line, every slower step is evidence of a life that was lived and a life that is still being lived. As Ms. Guy put it: “Beauty, style, and joy don’t have an expiration date.”

So here is my charge to you, Tribe. Call your aunties. Sit with your grandparents. Ask your mother the questions you have been saving for later. Take the trip now. Use the good china on a Tuesday. Celebrate the beauty in every season of life, and make room at the feet of those who came before us, to learn from them and to celebrate them while they are here to hear it.

To Ms. Guy, thank you. You have been my bougie big sister and a staple in my life. Your talent is unmatched, and your presence is so wanted. Whitley at 64 is still Whitley.

Love and legacy, Elma-Lorraine