It’s Not Me, It’s the Lord in Me

As my mother lay in the hospital just weeks before she left us, my sisters and I faced the reality that an undetected brain tumor had been causing her symptoms for the last five years. 

It was a heartbreaking moment for all of us as we realized the culprit behind her years of struggle, and perhaps some guilt at not knowing the cause of her underlying issue. Not that we hadn’t taken her to numerous specialists (besides the ones she already had for her heart, eyes, and paralyzed digestive system), trying to figure out why she had head pain, “not headaches,” and had gradually begun hallucinating along with a myriad other daily disturbances.

The nursing staff loved visiting with my mother while she was there. Despite her pain, issues with her feeding tube (a constant companion for the previous 30 years), and pervasive arthritis, she always had a smile and kind words for all who came to her bedside. When they marveled at what an inspiration she was, she quickly quipped back, “It’s not me, it’s the Lord in me.”

Next to the Lord, her family, and her friends, tea was her great love.

Every day that I can remember, my mother would begin her morning with a cup of tea in bed, reading from a small meditation book at her bedside. After, she would walk to the dining room den area to her little altar with a small Pietà statue, a rosebud vase, and a small crucifix, all resting on a shelf beneath the large Sacred Heart image with a family dedication inscribed at the bottom. Then she would have another cup of tea and sit in her special chair to read more daily meditation books. Whenever I spent a few weeks visiting with her, I would read the meditations out loud, and we’d spend time and another “cuppa” tea talking about the readings.

This morning ritual with Jesus, my mother’s friend, was one that sustained her when she was no longer able to drive and go to daily Mass. It was what made her acutely attuned to the Lord that she could so easily credit her faith-filled disposition and let the words roll off her tongue: “It’s not me, it’s the Lord in me.”

I wrote this poem in honor of and in memory of my mother.

Embracing Tea

Dreamt of her — 

Clear as the steaming Earl Grey

I sip from her bequeathed 

“Keep Calm and Drink Tea” mug.

Bright as the sun

beaming through her bay window,

vintage Queen Elizabeth plates on the wall.

Crisp as her London lilt.

Firm as her mother’s hug.

I saw her —

Years before home hospice,

before her hands could no longer clasp a cup,

before her skeletal shape slipped away,

in the youth of her 80s —

face crinkled with laughter

as she made tea for me.

Copyright 2026 Paula Veloso Babadi

Edited by Gabriella Batel

Photo credit: Author’s family album