Editor’s Note: Originally inspired by a personal text message sent during a tender moment of remembrance, this letter has been lovingly expanded for Memoirs of a Black Girl. While it was born out of a conversation with one of my nephews, its message is meant for each of my nieces and nephews—by blood, by bond, and by love.
Dear Hearts,
Grief is a stubborn guest. It doesn’t knock before entering, doesn’t care what time it is, and never seems to pack lightly. But it is also sacred. It tells your heart and mind that you were deeply loved—that we all were, by those we’ve lost.
I want you to know: I see you. I know exactly who you are. I haven’t deleted a single one of you from my phone—not ever. That’s how I was able to reach out the other night.
Now hear me clearly: Yes, your dad, your mama, your grandmother or great-grandmother, your aunt or great-aunt, your uncle—they would want you to live your life. Fully. Freely. Because it is yours to live.
After my mama—your grandmother, or great-grandmother—passed, I didn’t just grieve. I disappeared into a fog of sadness so thick I didn’t know how to find my way back. A dear friend finally told me, lovingly but directly, that my apartment felt more like a mausoleum than the home of a vibrant young woman in her 30s. That was my wake-up call.
And yes, even though I was working in ministry at the time, healing isn’t always instant—not even for the faithful.
Let me pause here to add some context to our family tree: My parents were members of the Silent Generation, born in the late 1930s. They began having children in their teens, and even as some of their grown children began starting families of their own, they had me in the late 1970s. Each had been in at least one significant relationship before marrying one another. Together and separately, they parented children across decades, creating a beautifully complex, multigenerational legacy.
In total, I had four sisters—three through my mother and one more through my father—as well as four brothers, two of whom had children. That means you, my precious nieces and nephews, span generations. Some of you see me as your auntie, others as a cousin, even a little or big sister figure. Regardless of how our titles fall, the love I carry for each of you runs just as deep.
I’ll never forget what my former boss and dear friend, Minister Roseboro, would say at every homegoing service:
“To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord (if you know Him). And to God, a thousand years is like one day.”
What does that mean for us?
It means that the ones we’ve lost haven’t even had a chance to miss us yet. But we? We still have time. We still have purpose.
Don’t waste the life you were gifted. Don’t bury your light with theirs.
Grief doesn’t vanish—it morphs. Sometimes into wisdom, sometimes into weariness. But it changes. And so do we.
I’m sorry I didn’t have the language to tell you this when I was younger—when I lost both of my parents, three father figures, and my only grandmother before I turned 30. But I have the words now. I have the healing now. And I have the clarity of a 46-year-old wife and mama who’s walked through the valley and come out on the other side.
So let me say this from the deepest part of my chest:
You are enough.
And I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that if your grandmother and your aunt—my mama and my sister—were here, they’d lovingly cuss you out if you ever thought otherwise.
Live your life, baby. Because they lived theirs.
With all my heart,
Auntie Lela
Scripture Takeaways:
- “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18 (NIV)
- “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain…” – Revelation 21:4 (NIV)
- “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” – 2 Corinthians 5:8 (KJV)
Reflection Question: What part of your life have you paused because of grief? And what might it look like to start living again?
Call to Action: Take one small step today toward reclaiming your joy. Whether it’s a phone call, a walk in the sun, journaling your feelings, or speaking their name aloud—do it. And know you’re not alone.
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
