Dear Mumma,

I’ve been thinking a lot about the gifts you gave me—not the ones wrapped in paper and ribbons, but the ones you wove into the fabric of my life. Among the most beautiful was the way you introduced me to God, heaven, and the mysteries of the universe.

You didn’t just tell me to believe in God; you painted Him for me with the most vivid, comforting strokes. You gave me the image of a protective God, always watching over us, guiding us, and offering help when we felt lost. You described heaven as a place where sickness and suffering no longer exist—a place of peace and beauty waiting for us when our time here is done. It wasn’t just a concept to me; it was a vision, a safe haven shimmering in my mind even as a child.

And oh, Mom, how could I ever forget those thunderstorms? What could have been scary became magical under your care. “That’s God bowling in heaven,” you said, smiling as thunder rolled. Every rumble was a strike, every flash of lightning a joyful celebration. Your words turned my fear into wonder and made the unknown feel playful and safe.

Even now, I feel the impact of those moments. You planted seeds of faith, hope, and imagination deep within me, and they’ve stayed with me through every twist and turn of life. When I’ve faced my darkest days, I’ve leaned on those gifts. They remind me that there’s something greater than all of this—something eternal, loving, and kind.

Losing you was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. But even in the depths of that loss, those beautiful images you gave me became my lifeline. When I look at the sky, I imagine you in that heaven you described—free from pain, radiant and peaceful, watching over me the way you always did.

You didn’t just teach me about faith; you showed me how to feel it, how to see it in the world around me. Your version of God wasn’t distant or stern. He was playful, gentle, and always close. You made Him accessible to me, and in doing so, you gave me something that could carry me through anything.

Even now, when the thunder rolls, I can hear your voice. “That’s another strike,” you’d say. And I smile, imagining you up there in heaven, part of the joyful celebration.

Thank you, Mom, for giving me faith that’s more than belief—for giving me wonder and hope and a vision of something beautiful beyond this world.

With all my love,

April