I am becoming my mother

the same way prayers become habits

slowly

quietly

Little by little without announcement

It happens in kitchen and kids rooms when they’re sick

in the bending down to serve

in the instinct to trust God

before trusting myself

Her faith shows up in me

not as words she preached

but as the ones she lived

the way she kept going

the way she forgave me

the way she believed God was near

even when answers were not

I carry her in the reflex to pray

when things fall apart

in the way my hands reach upward

before they reach outward

I once thought strength was so loud

She showed me it kneels

And one day I realize

I need to speak to God the way she did

honest

tired

hopeful

asking Him to hold what I cannot

I am not becoming her by accident

This is inheritance

Faith passed hand to hand

generation to generation

by a God who knew

exactly what He was doing

I can not ever replace my mother

I carry her with me

a living testimony

that what was planted in love

does not ever die

It multiplies

Oh, my Mama. She was right about everything.