More Than Trophies

August 16, 2025

Fugie woke me while I was crying. Tears had been streaming down my cheeks as I remembered my mother—remembered that she is gone.

In my dream, I was cleaning up after my niece’s graduation. I placed her little trophies and other decorations into a plastic bag. When I was finished, I held that bag in one hand and my black duffle in the other. I didn’t know where to go—everyone else was off somewhere, doing their own thing.

So I wandered into a house where people came and went, and in the back corner I noticed a woman. She lay in a chair-like bed, watching television. The wall was cluttered with objects, and more things were stacked on the floor, waiting for another pile to be added. It looked like a hoarder’s room—spaces I’ve known all my life. I realized I had no connection to her, and no place for my belongings, so I stepped into the living room where others had gathered.

Mary, my older sister, was on the sofa eating a sandwich. I began talking to her, but inside I was frustrated—frustrated because I just wanted a little corner to set my things. Then suddenly, I thought of my mother. The realization of her absence broke me. Tears burst from my eyes, and I wailed. I sank into the sofa with my bags on my lap, buried my face, and sobbed uncontrollably. That’s when Fugie woke me.

I lay there, mourning. Life has kept me so busy that I haven’t slowed down to let my heart truly embrace what I still carry of her. My chest ached with longing. And yet I know God is good. In January, He gave me the chance to visit her—just me and her. On the very day she passed, I was able to speak with her, pray with her. A few days later, I was given the gift of sitting in her apartment, soaking up the last remnants of her presence.

I miss her so much.

God knew I would need every moment He gave me, because my life is full—a house of children, a dog, my husband, our businesses. Church and ministry. Family matters. All of it keeps me moving. But in the quiet of that dream, and in the tears that followed, my spirit finally found room to mourn.

Much like those trophies—small and lifeless—our achievements often carry so little weight. What are accomplishments if they are forgotten at the end of life? All this busyness—what does it really produce? My business, my work, is only a way to serve others so they can build equity, create cash flow for more time, establish a home, or pass something down to their loved ones. Whatever the reason, I play just a small role in their stories.

But in my children’s lives, I am everything good—for now anyway. And at the end of life, it won’t be the trophies or accomplishments people remember us by. It will be the love and dedication we gave, the way we carved a place in the hearts of those closest to us.

The truth is, I haven’t always lived that way. Stress and distraction have sometimes pulled out the ugliest version of me—sharp words, lack of self-control, impatience. My family deserves better. I know I’m not perfect, but I know who I want to become.

As I journey toward becoming her—the woman I know I am called to be—I pray that I will remember to extend extra grace to myself. May I be gentle when I stumble, patient when I fall short, and quick to forgive my own failings. I pray that I will be kinder to myself, guarding my thoughts, speaking life over my heart and mind instead of condemnation or doubt.

I pray that as I walk this path of healing and wholeness, I will not rush the process but allow God to shape me in His timing. May I be formed more and more into the likeness of Christ, so that His character shines through me. May the Fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—take deep root within me, nourishing my soul and overflowing into the lives of those around me.

And in all of it, may my life testify that God is faithful, that His grace is sufficient, and that His love is the truest legacy I can ever leave behind.

Because at the end of it all, it is not the trophies of this life that matter—it is the love we leave behind.