It was Sunday, my favorite day of the week.

A day of gathering, singing, worshiping, and pouring my heart out before God.

A day that normally felt familiar, joyful, and full of purpose.

But this Sunday was different.

The sky looked different.

Church felt different.

I felt different.

Three days earlier, my mother passed away at the age of forty nine.

No warning.

No preparation.

No time to brace myself.

Just days before, we had talked.

A month before, we spent time together at a women’s retreat.

Nothing hinted that she was preparing to leave this world.

Nothing signaled that she was about to say her final goodbye.

And now here I was on a Sunday morning… motherless.

Yet I was still a worship leader.

Still “Sister Daphine.”

Still viewed as an encourager.

Still looked to as a minister.

My assignment had not changed, but my life had.

Questions flooded my mind.

How do I encourage others when my faith feels empty

How do I uplift people when my strength has evaporated

How do I stand before others when I can barely stand within myself

I walked into church smiling after crying for hours. People hugged me, asked if I was okay, and deep inside I wondered the same thing.

Am I okay

Am I supposed to SAY I’m okay

Is there a script for this kind of grief

Should I even be here

Should I sing

Should I sit quietly

Should I explain myself

Should I hide my pain

Everything in me felt fragile, vulnerable, and exposed.

Yet something in my spirit would not be quiet.

Something in me still wanted to praise God.

I sat in the audience that morning, praying silently. I could feel eyes on me, as if people wondered why I was seated instead of leading. But I worshipped right there in my pew. Tears streamed down my face as I lifted my heart to God.

Even in raw grief, something in me longed for what was familiar: worship.

Stepping on a stage.

Yielding to the Spirit.

Losing myself in His presence.

Finding strength I did not have on my own.

I remembered the scripture:

In the presence of God is the fullness of joy.

Everything in my physical world screamed pain, but my spirit whispered praise.

I asked God quietly, If You want me to sing today, create the opportunity.

Even as I questioned myself, the desire was there.

Moments later, my pastor began singing. Then he said, “Who wants to come help me sing this song”

My spirit leaped inside me.

Lord… is this You?

Before I could think, people in the audience pointed at me.

Daphine, go up there

Go on

My pastor then signaled for me to come. When I walked up, he handed me the microphone. He had never sung that song before, and has not sung it since.

I opened my mouth, and what came out was not singing.

It was prayer.

Rhythmic prayer.

Crying prayer.

Praising prayer.

I poured out my heart to God through every note.

I told Him I needed Him.

I told Him I was hurting.

I praised Him through tears.

I declared His faithfulness while grieving my deepest loss.

And something supernatural happened.

The church erupted in praise.

People wept.

People smiled.

People held their hearts.

People watched liberation happen right before them.

They saw me choose worship in the middle of devastation.

They saw God carry me when I could not carry myself.

When I handed the microphone back and walked toward my seat, my reality had not changed. My mother was still gone. Her funeral was still ahead. But my faith had risen.

As I squeezed past the pews, my daughter tugged my cardigan and whispered, “Mom, God answered your prayer. You always wanted to sing with Bishop.”

I froze.

I had never spoken that out loud.

It was only a thought in my heart.

At that moment, I realized God was not only sustaining me…

He was comforting me with the desires of my heart even while I was suffering.

As the days passed and I prepared for my mother’s funeral, I prayed for supernatural strength. One night, God gave me a poem to honor her. I read it at the service as tears filled the room. My father asked me to promise to publish it. Once again, God turned my pain into ministry.

After the funeral, reality settled in.

I will never see her again.

The grief tried to consume me.

Depression tried to take root.

The enemy tried to use my emotions against me.

But I refused to suffer alone.

I prayed every day.

I stayed connected to people who understood loss.

I anchored myself in God’s word.

I leaned on testimonies from others.

And every day, God carried me.

I learned something in that season.

We must praise God regardless of circumstances.

In brokenness, healing is born.

In pain, power is manifested.

In weakness, strength rises.

If we are never wounded, how can He be our healer

If we never cry, how can He be our comfort

If we never feel lost, how can He guide us

Losing my mother taught me to worship through whatever tries to break me. Worship became my lifeline. Worship became my healing. Worship became my anchor.

To every worship leader who is singing through pain, remember:

We pray twice.

Once in private.

Once when we sing.

And when we worship beyond our feelings, we meet God beyond our understanding.

Our feelings change, but God does not.

He is our constant.

He is our help.

And when worship becomes a lifeline, He always meets us there.