your thumb still knows her number

Published 18 days ago • 1 min read

You still reach for your phone sometimes, don't you?

Not because you forgot. You know. But muscle memory doesn't grieve the way your heart does. Your thumb still knows the number. Your body still thinks she'll pick up.

That is one of the most specific griefs that goes unnamed. The ordinary ambush. The habit your hands haven't caught up to yet.

I know it because I do it too.

I lost my Mama in October 2024, two days after her open heart surgery. I was 7,000 miles away. On FaceTime with my sister. Begging God for a miracle.

Nine months later, I lost my Papa. I was pregnant with Emman when we buried him.

My son has never met either of them.

Here is the thing I did not expect: losing both of them is what finally made my faith real.

I had believed in God for as long as I can remember. Gone to church. Said the prayers. But for the past 20 years, my Bible sat on a shelf. Untouched. I came to God when I needed something and went back to my life when things were okay. Comfortable. Lukewarm.

Grief broke that open.

A few weeks after Papa's funeral, I had the urge to read an actual Bible. Not the app. A real one, with weight in my hands. I went looking for it in our family home. Out of habit, mid-search, I turned to ask Mama where it was.

She always knew where everything was.

I found it myself. She had kept it safe without either of us knowing I would one day have to find it without her.

I opened it that night. I have not stopped since.

I would not have done that if I had not lost them. I would have kept the comfortable version of faith. Grief is not a gift. I will never call it that. But it bowed me low enough to finally pay attention.

If you are in that season right now, here is the one thing I want to ask you to do today: