A Change In Routine
Back in November, I changed the church I was attending.
Since then, life has been full. Between responsibilities and commitments, even finding time to relax has been difficult. At my new church, I quickly took on responsibilities managing the AV equipment. It’s something I enjoy, but it also means stepping away requires planning.
My neighbors, who still attend my former church, had told me not to be a stranger. That I was always welcome to visit both them and the church.
I hadn’t made it back.
Unexpected News
I found out by chance.
I saw my neighbor getting ready to leave and stopped to chat. That’s when he told me that my former pastor’s mother-in-law had passed away, and that the service would be held in a few days.
It caught me off guard.
Mo was the kind of person who didn’t just say hello—she started conversations. She reminded me of my grandmother. The same warmth. The same way of drawing people in. The same gentle insistence that you smile.
Arriving Late
I put the service on my calendar, but the timing wasn’t entirely clear. There was a viewing, followed by a celebration of life at another church.
After helping at the senior center and finishing a few things at home, I realized I was running late.
When I arrived, the place was packed.
There was no parking nearby, so I found a side street and walked in. I saw familiar faces, but there wasn’t much to say. “How are you doing?” didn’t seem like a question anyone could answer in that moment.
I was wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt, standing out among the dark suits.
Someone told me she would have loved it.
That felt right.
Going Forward
At first, I stayed near the back, unsure how things were flowing.
The program read like a full service—invocation, scripture, songs, tributes, a eulogy, and a meditation. It had structure, order, and intention.
A Captain was officiating the service. Both the pastor and his father, the prior pastor, were assisting.
Seeing a few people dressed in uniform made me realize there was more to Mo’s life than I had known. The uniforms looked more like the Salvation Army than the military, but they still carried a sense of formality and service. I began to understand that the version of her I knew was only a small part of a much larger life.
Her final resting place would be at Quantico National Cemetery.
I only knew her personality at church, her connection to the pastor, and the way she treated people.
Now I found myself wondering what I had missed.
Looking down at the program, I noticed her full name listed, ending with an unfamiliar surname.
The same surname as the captain officiating the service.
I hadn’t really known her by any name other than Mo.
As I scanned the program further, I saw the surname repeated—among family members, even one of the pallbearers. It slowly came together that this wasn’t just someone officiating.
This was additional family.
After a while, I decided I should go up.
The aisle was crowded, and it wasn’t entirely clear how the process worked, but I moved forward anyway.
That’s when I saw her.
The Moment That Shifted Everything
She looked like herself.
Not distant. Not changed in a way that softened reality. Just… herself. As if she might wake at any moment.
That made it harder.
I said a quick prayer and turned away.
There’s a kind of finality in that moment that doesn’t need explanation. You feel it immediately.
Stepping Away
When I returned to my seat, something had shifted.
The room felt heavier. The music, though gentle, carried weight. The longer I sat, the more it felt like everything was closing in—not physically, but internally.
At some point, I told myself that in a room this full, someone else might need the seat more than I did.
But the truth was, I needed to step outside.
Eventually, I got up and left.
One of the pastors thanked me for coming as I walked out. Outside, the air felt different. Easier. Each step helped me steady myself again.
I sat in my car and let out a long breath.
That was a close one.
What I Didn’t Know
Later, after I had returned home and everything had quieted down, I found myself reading through her obituary.
Some of the things I had only guessed at began to make sense.
The one officiating the service was her son.
What I had seen from a distance was, in reality, more family surrounding her than I had realized.
Her name was one I had never really known. To me, she had only ever been “Mo.”
But her life was far larger than the version I knew.
She had been married for 64 years.
She had three children, twelve grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren.
She trained as an officer in The Salvation Army, graduating in 1969, and served in Virginia, Mississippi, and Louisiana before later working as a government contractor with Raytheon.
Mississippi stood out to me.
I had lived there briefly before moving to Front Royal.
Another small overlap in a life I barely knew.
And still, I had only seen a small part of it.
The Parts We See
It made me think about how often we only see a fraction of someone.
At church, I knew her as someone who was warm, welcoming, and genuinely interested in people.
I didn’t see the years of service.
I didn’t see the full extent of her family.
I didn’t see the decades that shaped who she became.
But somehow, the part I did see carried all of that with it.
The Pattern In The Stories
As I read through the messages left on her obituary, something began to stand out.
Different people. Different years. Different parts of her life.
And yet, they all described the same person.
Warm.
Loving.
Someone who made people feel seen.
Someone who stayed connected.
Someone who showed up for others in their hardest moments.
One person remembered her from the 1970s, recalling laughter and even a moment of being chased by squirrels through a church hallway. Another described her as a “true friend,” someone who ended every phone call with a prayer and “I love you.” Others spoke about her hugs, her humor, her spunk, her kindness.
It wasn’t just one story.
It was a pattern.
What Carries Forward
I didn’t know her history.
I didn’t know her service.
I didn’t know the full extent of her family.
But I knew the part that seemed to matter most to the people who wrote about her.
And maybe that’s the part that carries forward.
Not titles.
Not roles.
Not even the full story.
Just the way someone makes others feel—and how consistently they do it.
The Part I Recognized
What struck me most was that the part I knew—the small slice of her life I experienced—fit perfectly into that pattern.
The way she greeted people.
The way she started conversations.
The way she made you feel like you mattered, even in a brief exchange.
I hadn’t imagined it.
That was who she was.
A Familiar Kind Of Warmth
What stayed with me wasn’t just the service.
It was her.
Mo reminded me of my grandmother. She passed away at 83 years old—just two years older than my grandmother.
My grandmother was the one person in my life who embodied warmth in a consistent, natural way. Neither my mother nor hers was that way. My paternal grandmother was.
That difference leaves an imprint.
It shapes how you recognize people.
Connection And Distance
I’ve realized something.
I meet people who are kind. Pleasant. Easy to talk to.
But connection doesn’t always follow.
There’s a kind of distance I keep—quiet, automatic. Not something I actively choose, but something that’s just there.
Mo had that warmth.
So do my neighbors.
And I think sometimes I’ve been too guarded to fully receive it.
An Unexpected Parallel
The day after her death, I attended my first death café, not knowing what had happened.
We talked about death in abstract terms—how people think about it, how they process it, what it means. I even shared that sometimes I feel like my grandmother is still watching over me.
Then a few days later, I walked into something very real.
Not abstract.
Not theoretical.
Showing Up Still Matters
I don’t think I missed my chance.
I showed up.
I remembered her.
And I recognized something in her that connects back to something I’ve been trying to understand—what it means to feel warmth, and what it takes to let it in.
A Small Step Forward
Maybe that’s something I can work on.
Not all at once.
Just a little at a time.
Because it turns out I didn’t know her life—
But I did know who she was.
