Today is the anniversary of my mother’s earthly passing.

This is the anniversary of truly understanding faith in God. My mother, a larger-than-life personality and often an intimidating figure, played a key role in that understanding. While she could be reserved in public, at home, she quietly held profound faith. Like me, she was brought up in the church—part of one of the largest youth choirs in Philadelphia—and later became involved in a specialized family choir. But her faith and mentorship extended far beyond the walls of any church.

She taught me to look beyond appearances, especially when it came to people who spend all their time in church, holding positions or even leading. She showed me that not everyone in those roles is necessarily saved. Recently, I came to fully understand this lesson in a situation on social media.

My mother was not perfect. She had her good moments and bad, like anyone, but she understood that life’s trials are tests toward the ultimate goal: the end of our earthly existence and graduation to eternity.

My mother was a tested genius. This wasn’t just an opinion—my grandmother had her IQ tested, and she scored off the charts, something I didn’t even know about until my grandmother told me in a similar situation. My mother challenged me, angered me, and pushed me to understand the world around me. She also taught me that intellect and intelligence aren’t always celebrated; they can provoke insecurity in others. People may label you as “dark” when, in truth, they need your light to navigate their own lives. Your abilities can be seen as privileges for others to exploit, taking credit for your work simply because they can’t do it themselves.

This anniversary also marks my mother’s second fight with cancer. Her first battle was when she was just 16 or 17 years old, pregnant with me. During one of her stays at Fox Chase Hospital, she told me she prayed to live long enough to see me graduate from high school. She saw that—and much more.

My mother was a giver. At her funeral, my great-aunt Rachel recalled how, when my mother stepped off the train at 69th Street, the homeless people there immediately cheered, “Miss Germaine, Miss Germaine!” I witnessed it myself. At her homegoing service, a non-Black woman spoke of how my mother had helped her escape a domestic violence situation. The service was standing-room only. However, none of these acts of kindness were the foundation of her faith.

One of the most profound moments was when she made a phone call to my great-aunt Rachel, after speaking with my grandmother. I overheard her describe an angel with six wings entering her room—two wings covering its face. My great-aunt immediately recalled Psalm 91. Around that time, I stood in the hallway, looked up at the ceiling, and cried. I knew my mother was dying, and she had accepted it.

On October 5, 2006, I was tidying drawers while my grandmother prepared lunch downstairs. Jamir hadn’t come home from school yet. The sound of the oxygen machine and the smell of food filled the house. I asked my mother, “Mom, do you want to wear this robe?” as I stood in the doorway of her bedroom. She replied, “I don’t need a robe, but call the ambulance.” I did after Jamir got home. That was her last statement before the paramedics resuscitated her. She remained on a ventilator for days, while we waited to see if she had suffered any irreversible brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

On the night of October 9th, I dreamt of her. There was a heavenly glow in our hallway—the last place she had spoken. She appeared, smiling, as she walked down the stairs. I asked, “Do you want your oxygen mask?” She smiled, shook her head, and said, “I don’t need it.” I woke up immediately to a 5 a.m. phone call with no number or ID, just a blank screen. I knew what it meant. I told my grandmother, “I’m taking her off the ventilator,” and explained the dream. My grandmother, who knows me well, understood that I wouldn’t make such a decision unless I had complete faith.

I loved my mother. I didn’t want to lose her. But my grandmother called those who needed to be there. When the doctors unhooked the machines, a nurse rushed us into the room, saying my mother was taking her last breath. I stumbled back, not out of grief but shock—seven years earlier, I had been asked to make the same decision for my father. He had passed away in the room right next to my mother’s. That’s why my company is named 8×10 Designs—my father died on February 8th, and my mother on October 10th, in rooms side by side.

True to her dramatic nature, my mother took her last breath as her head moved from side to side. Her skin turned blue, but she smiled. Just as she passed, my great-aunt Justine’s phone rang—again, no number, no caller ID. I smirked and whispered, “Goodbye, Mom. See you on the other side.” Before she died, my mother had said, “My healing may be on the other side.” It was her profound acceptance of her fate and trust in God, despite an outcome none of us wanted.

For me, faith became real as I watched my mother and grandmother face adversity with grace. It has taken 18 years to speak about this experience. I’ve now lived longer than both my parents, having just surpassed my mother’s age. I, too, faced a life-or-death hospitalization at the same age she did, and through it, I understood the faith she taught me. Not every smiling face is truly in your corner.

Recently, Jamir shared how angry, alone, and in disbelief he felt when it seemed like I might die. He had a few cousins he could rely on, but the others—not so much, because of conversations he heard from another cousin. Despite being there for others in the past, he felt betrayed by their destructive words and false claims about his care for me. His tears reminded me of how I felt when I feared my mother wouldn’t pull through. However, faith, along with the support of the family members who truly cared, helped him navigate through the negativity.

My mother would be proud of what her death taught us about life.

One last story: in November 2005, my mother and I went to pick up a family member from work, though we weren’t sure where exactly he worked. On the way, we saw an older woman waiting at a bus stop in the cold. My mother rolled down the window and asked where she was headed. The woman said she was trying to get to the hospital to see her daughter. We drove her there. Almost a year later, after one of my mother’s appointments at Fox Chase, I saw that same woman in a wheelchair. She remembered me and smiled, saying she was so happy she got to see her daughter. As I drove by again, she had vanished. When I told my mother, she said she hadn’t seen the woman at all.

This happened the day before my mother told me she didn’t want her robe.