This article is part of an ongoing Stroke & Patient Advocacy series documenting Katina Rankin’s personal experience navigating Mississippi’s healthcare system.
by K. Monroe Carter/Permission Granted by Katina Rankin
It’s warm — unexpectedly warm.
Yesterday, I spent most of the day in bed. Healing will do that to you. Today, though, I made it outside. With my handy-dandy green rollator and walking cane, I walked to the mailbox and decided to sit for a moment under the garage. Just to breathe. Just to be.
I looked over at my plants. The same ones that kept me company during the pandemic while I broadcasted from home. I chose them intentionally back then. Hardy plants. Survivors. Air purifiers. The kind NASA recommends: ZZ plants, mother-in-law tongues (snake plants, though I can’t stand snakes of any kind—those that crawl or the two-legged kind that walk around… but I digress), and pothos that just keep growing no matter what.
I set them outside for a brief moment to catch a breeze before my mom could catch me lifting anything I’m not supposed to for two more weeks. (Surgery went well. Thank you for the prayers. More to come on that experience.
And as I sat there, scrolling through social media, I noticed a pattern. So many people were hurting. Mourning broken relationships. Disappointed by family, associates, coworkers. People they thought would show up and didn’t. People they poured into who poured nothing back but lies, venom and jealousy.
And then I heard it clearly, deep in my spirit:
Write. Mourning season is over.
If you’re going to do anything this month, grab five blocks and write F.A.I.T.H. on each one. Step on them daily whether with your foot, your finger, or just your thoughts.
Faith when you don’t feel strong.
Faith when you’re tired of being the strong one.
Faith when you’re healing in plain sight.
Faith when things didn’t turn out the way you prayed, but you’re still standing.
Faith when you have to encourage yourself because nobody else knows how much strength it took just to get to the mailbox.
“Mourning season is over.”
That doesn’t mean we forget. It doesn’t mean the pain wasn’t real. It means we don’t live there anymore. It means we honor the grief, but we refuse to build a permanent address inside it.
Like those plants, we adapt. We survive. We keep purifying the air around us even when the environment isn’t ideal. We grow anyway.
Sometimes, encouragement doesn’t come wrapped in applause or validation. Sometimes it comes quietly on a warm December afternoon, sitting under a garage, realizing you made it outside today. Praise GOD!
And sometimes, obedience looks like this:
Getting up.
Writing.
Believing again.
Mourning season is over.
And I’ve been obedient.
Katina Rankin is a stroke survivor, journalist, author, and founder of Katina’s Klassroom, a nonprofit literacy initiative in Simpson County, Mississippi, dedicated to empowering children and families through reading, equity, food security, and community healing.
