She was born in the back bedroom of a small farmhouse in a little community called New Hope. It was the Great Depression—a season of want and worry, when every penny had a purpose and every blessing was counted twice. But in that quiet home, hope arrived in the form of a baby girl. No doctors, no bright lights. Just the sure and capable hands of her older sister and her aunt—family women who had seen hard days and met them with rolled-up sleeves and steady grace. They were midwives in a time when love filled in for what money couldn’t buy. A few gathered near. No fanfare. Just presence.

I’ve thought of that scene more times than I can count since January, when my mother passed from this world to the next. Her final moments were not loud or rushed. They unfolded with quiet dignity in a small hospital room. It wasn’t crowded. No clamor. Just her four children surrounding her, hands held, tears shared, memories rising in our chests like breath. Love, spoken in whispers. She came into the world quietly, and she left it the same way—held by the people who knew her best and loved her longest.

There’s something holy in that kind of full-circle grace. A life that begins and ends in the arms of family. It settles in the heart like truth. And it makes you think. About the things we chase. The things we carry. The things we let slip through our fingers while we’re too busy doing what we think matters.

We fill our calendars and call it success. We chase goals and label it drive. But it’s possible to stay busy and still feel empty. Possible to be admired and still be unknown. At the end of the day, we don’t need accolades or crowds. We just need our people. Our quiet places. Our handholds.

And when we’re gone, it won’t be the accomplishments they remember. Not the bullet points or bios. It’ll be the love we gave. The way we made them feel when they were most themselves. Being remembered for your love is far greater than being known for your résumé.

My mom was born in New Hope. A place that was barely on the map but has never left my memory. And in the hush that followed her passing, I find myself returning there too—not to a dot on a road atlas, but to a way of seeing. A posture. A quiet leaning in. That’s what grief does—it turns down the volume, clears the clutter, and calls you back to what lasts.

It’s been said that sorrow is the price we pay for love. I think that’s true, but I’d add something more: sorrow sharpens our sight. It peels back the surface and reveals the threads that have been there all along—faith, presence, loyalty, kindness. You see it more clearly after a loss. And suddenly, it becomes obvious that it’s the small, sacred things—unseen kindness, daily faithfulness, gentle words, the way we show up for each other—that create a legacy worth remembering.

Scripture tells us that when Abraham died, “he was gathered to his people” (Genesis 25:8). I’ve read that verse a hundred times, but now it reads me. It’s more than poetic language. It’s a promise. Abraham—who never owned much, not even land except for the place he would be buried—wasn’t lost. He wasn’t swallowed up by time or obscured by history. He was received. Welcomed. Not into silence, but into reunion. Into the arms of his people.

And I believe the same is true for my mother.

She wasn’t lost. She was gathered. Not to a place, but to a presence. To her mother’s warm embrace. To the sister who helped deliver her all those years ago in the back room of a farmhouse called New Hope. To the saints who had gone before her and waited with joy. And to the one who always stood just a few steps ahead—my dad—who had gone home thirteen years earlier. I can see his smile, wide and sure, as he took her hand and said with a chuckle, “What took you so long, Wence?”

That’s how I imagine it. A welcome, not a goodbye. A homecoming, not a departure.

And ultimately, she was gathered into the arms of the One who knew her before she drew her first breath. The One who knit her together in her mother’s womb, who watched as she took that first breath in the quiet of that farmhouse bedroom. The same One who walked beside her through every season—through joy and sorrow, strength and struggle. The God who was not only with her at the end, but who had been with her every step of the way.

There’s something about the word “gathered.” It’s soft. Intimate. It carries no sharp edges, no rush. It speaks of intention and belonging. It’s what shepherds do with their sheep, what parents do with their children, what friends do when the night grows long and the fire burns low. They gather. They draw close. They make room.

And that’s what God does with us.

We live in a loud world that teaches us to go big, go fast, do more. But I’m learning that what matters most is often quiet. Ordinary. Easily overlooked. But eternity notices. Heaven leans in. And the smallest moments become the most sacred.

My mother didn’t live a flashy life. She didn’t write books or speak from platforms. But she gave love, over and over again. She made you feel safe when you didn’t know where to turn. She remembered birthdays. She said grace before meals. She stayed when things got hard. She prayed when things got harder. Her life was a collection of small obediences, stitched together with care. And that, I believe, is how saints are made.

So now, in the quiet that follows her departure, I find myself listening more. Watching more closely. Saying “thank you” more often. I go back to New Hope in my heart—not as a place to visit, but as a way to live. A way to hold what matters. A way to believe that even when we can’t see the road ahead, God is there—gathering, guiding, loving.

Because in the end—like Abraham… like my dad… like my mother—we will be gathered to our people. Not into emptiness, but into embrace. Not into silence, but into a love that has been waiting for us all along.

And oh, what a beautiful homecoming that will be.