In Due Time: A Birthday Reflection for My Mother
By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar
This is not a lecture. This is not a TED Talk. I’m not here to persuade you or put you in awe. This is simply my heart speaking my personal feelings on this day, February 6, the day my mother, Marva, was born in 1954.
She left this realm on August 15, 2011. That moment her departure was a fracture in my existence, a breaking so severe that even time itself could not completely mend it. Until this day, I remember it vividly, but I never truly told anyone how that day unfolded from my vantage point. Perhaps that’s why I carried the weight of that loss for so long. The sorrow burrowed deep, troubling me in ways I did not yet understand. My faith, the very foundation of my being, trembled like shifting tectonic plates like Pangaea separating, my soul splitting apart.
I was Humpty Dumpty fallen, shattered, irreparable.
No person, no comfort, no wisdom could put me back together again. I spiraled into the relentless abyss of why? questioning, wrestling with the Creator in ways that would shock even the most devout believer. My mind was chaotic, unstable, lost in the storm of grief. Yet, in my arrogance, I thought I could handle it alone. I thought I could fix myself. But pain has a way of teaching what pride blinds us from seeing.
In time through whispered prayers, silent screams, and restless nights I came to a hard truth: we are not self-sufficient.
We are not islands. We are not our own source. We are not the masters of our own existence. We must put our faith, our trust, our very breath in the hands of the Creator. I had spent so much of my life believing I could heal myself, but I was wrong. Healing is not self-made it is divine.
My mother understood this long before I did. She was a woman of unshakable faith, a faith so strong that at times, I thought she was… unconventional. How could she move the way she did? How could she carry the burdens of relationships, financial struggles, health battles, long work hours, and still remain steadfast? How could she endure it all and still believe still trust in the Creator?
And to top it off, she had me Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar.
I was no easy son. My emotions were heavy, my struggles constant. Depression clung to me like a second skin. I was always caught in something, always reaching for my mother to support me, to help me with my writing, to listen to my endless ideas, to be my safe place when the world felt unkind. I was a storm in her life, yet she stood unshaken.
For years, I couldn’t comprehend it.
I would say, "Ain’t no way. I could never be Marva. My strength could never measure up to hers." If I had even a grain of rice’s worth of my mother’s faith, maybe just maybe my life would have been different.
But in due time…
In due time, I would learn what it meant to trust.
In due time, I would believe in miracles, not just read about them.
In due time, I would understand the unseen, the supernatural, the eternal.
In due time, I would learn to stand firm in the midst of a life earthquake.
And now, at 46 years old, I see. I truly see.
The saddest part? It took my mother’s death and years of struggle to finally understand that she wasn’t crazy I was.
I was crazy to believe I was self-sufficient.
I was crazy to think I could navigate life without deep connection to the Creator.
I was crazy to chase possessions while neglecting my soul.
I was crazy to resist what my mother tried to teach me all along.
Her life was the lesson.
Her struggles were the testimony.
Her faith was the foundation I refused to stand on.
And now, on this day, February 6, 2025, I sit here thinking of her not just in sorrow, but in gratitude. I finally understand. I finally see what she saw.
To everyone reading this, I leave you with this: love your people while they are here.
Don’t wait until they’re gone to wish you had valued them more. Don’t wait until the silence is permanent to say, “I love you.” Celebrate them now. Appreciate them now. Move boulders for them now. Because one day, you’ll sit where I sit looking back, remembering, and wishing for just one more moment.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I see you now. I honor you now. I love you, now and forever.
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