March.
It’s not spring. Not quite.
It’s not winter either—not really.
It lives in the in-between.
A quiet, stretching space where the cold hasn’t fully loosened its grip, but warmer days visit now and then.
It is a season of waiting… and of hope.
And this is where I find myself—looking ahead.
In February of 2025, I received a letter from my heart donor’s mother.
She told me about her daughter, Ella.
She told me Ella was kind.
Talented.
Deeply loved.
She shared just enough for me to learn a few sacred details, including her birthday—March 16th.
So I made a promise.
Every year, I will bake a cake.
It feels small—almost too small.
But it is something I can do. An offering of gratitude for a life that deserves to be remembered, even as it continues to ripple outward in ways none of us can fully see.
Because I know that somewhere out there, there is a mother who would give anything to bake that cake herself.
To light the candles.
To sing the song.
Maybe even to dance around the kitchen with her daughter—joyfully celebrating.
I know there is a mother who prayed for a miracle—
and instead, was asked to give one.
I know there is a mother who aches to hold her daughter again,
to watch her grow, to see her become everything she was meant to be—
and instead, carries a quiet, unseen connection to a life she helped save.
And there is a part of me that longs to reach out and embrace that mother, to offer her comfort.
I wonder if this is, in some small way, what love looks like in its most sacred form—spiritual tether, a heavenly connection.
This time of year always draws my heart to Easter—
to another mother.
Mary, the mother of Jesus, stood at the edge of unimaginable loss, watching her son give everything.
She, too, knew what it was to love deeply and to let go—
to hold both grief and purpose in the same breath.
I can’t help but think of her in this in-between season—
between sorrow and resurrection,
between what was and what will be—what is possible and what is promised.
Because March feels like that, too.
A space where hearts hold both breaking and healing.
Where loss and life exist side by side.
Each heartbeat I carry is a quiet reminder
that love does not disappear.
It transforms. It forgives. It celebrates.
It heals.
It returns in ways we never expect nor merit.
So, as long as I am living these bonus days, March 16th I will bake a cake.
I will remember her name. And I will remember Him.
I will honor life in the only way I know how.
And I will hold space for the mystery of it all—
for grief and gratitude,
for endings and beginnings,
for the quiet miracle of living in the in-between.
Because here—
especially here—
hope is returning and remembering.
Witness Marks 