Txujkev Txom Nyem

In the Hmong language, the phrase txuj kev txom nyem is more than just a description of pain. It is the name of a journey—a path of quiet endurance, selfless love, and deeply rooted suffering that transforms into strength. It is a phrase for those who have carried more than their share and still chose to give.

My mother walked that road.

She was orphaned as a young lady, left to navigate life without the presence of a father or mother. My only memory of her father is a picture. I never met my grandmother and never really knew my step-grandmother. Losing a parent is no small wound. Our parents are our teachers, our guides, our protectors—not just in life, but in spirit. To grow up without them is to feel the world without its structure. But somehow, in that brokenness, my mother chose to build. She chose to love. And more than anything, she chose to hold on.

I believe with all my heart that she held on to life so her children would not have to experience the pain she knew all too well—the pain of growing up motherless. I believe this is why she held onto her friendships so dearly to her heart.

During my visit, my sister Lee shared with me something that mom told her in a quiet moment, a phrase that the elders in our community often repeat:

“Yug tsis paub txuj kev txom nyem. Thaum yug tsis muaj Nam, muaj Txiv, yug maamle paub txujkev txom nyem zoo le caag."

“You won’t truly understand what suffering is until the day you lose your mother or father.”

At the time, the words felt distant. Heavy, yes—but far away.

Now they feel like they’ve settled into our bones.

Now we understand.

When we lost our mom, we didn’t just lose a parent.

We lost our family’s greatest prayer warrior.

She was the one who stood in the spiritual gap for all of us—praying when we didn’t know how to, interceding for our marriages/partnerships, our children, our futures. There’s a weight you don’t feel until it’s lifted—and the silence of her absence in prayer is louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

Now, it’s up to us.

It’s up to us to pick up where she left off—to learn how to pray with fire and faith over our homes the way she did. We must become what she was: a covering.

But here is what brings me peace: The blessings we walk in today are not random. They are the fruit of a woman who loved Christ fiercely, quietly, and faithfully.

The favor that surrounds our family… the grace we’ve been given… it’s not just luck—it’s an extension of our mother’s love for God. Her life was an offering, and her faith was an inheritance.

Even in her suffering, she trusted Him. 

Even in her sickness, she worshiped Him.

Even in her final days, she believed more for us than we ever knew.

In Hmong culture, grief is not just about tears—it is about remembering. It is about carrying forward the love that shaped us. And my mother’s love was shaped by both sorrow and surrender. She suffered in silence so we could laugh freely. She prayed in secret so we could live in peace. She endured txuj kev txom nyem, and in doing so, she gave us everything.

Today, I remember her not only as my mother, but as a quiet warrior—a woman of deep faith, stubborn hope, and unwavering love.

She didn’t just live—she fought for us to live well. She showed us through her life what and what not to do. 

Her legacy will not be forgotten.

Her prayers are not gone.

And her love, rooted in Christ, continues to bless us even now.

Thank you, Mom, for your faith that extended God's love and blessing upon our family.