Gloria’s Heart: Reflections and Remembrance

There are so many things I could say about my mother that trying to fit her life into one blog post almost feels impossible. How do you summarize the woman who helped shape your faith, protected you, encouraged your gifts, prayed for you, corrected you, worried about you, laughed with you, and loved you through every season of your life? There are stories I could tell for days, memories that still make me laugh, moments that make me cry, and lessons I know I will carry for the rest of my life. I cannot tell every story here, but I can tell you about my Momma. And if you knew Gloria F. Johnson, then you already know she was truly one of a kind.

Gloria F. Johnson was born on September 30, 1961, in Ennis, Texas, and was raised by Lillie and Johnny Terrell. She grew up in Houston, Texas, where she accepted Christ at an early age and began developing the strong faith that would guide her throughout her entire life. She was intelligent, determined, and an excellent student, graduating Cum Laude from M.B. Smiley High School before continuing her education at Massey Business College. She began her professional career with Gulf Oil and later worked as a secretary for Fulbright & Jaworski.

On March 31, 1986, she joined Solid Rock Missionary Baptist Church under the leadership of Pastor Ross M. Cullins Sr., where her love for God and ministry continued to grow. Faith was never simply something Momma talked about. It shaped the way she lived, the way she loved people, the way she raised her family, and the way she responded whenever she saw someone in need.

She later married the love of her life, Jimmie Johnson, of Cottonport, Louisiana. Together, they built a life centered around faith, family, service, sacrifice, and love. Their union was blessed with five children: Jeremiah, Melissa, Isaiah, Paulus, and Nehemiah.

When I say my parents loved us, I mean they truly loved us. My mother and father treated me like I was the king of the world. When I was little, if something I owned touched the floor—or anything they considered less than sanitary—it might as well have been gone. They dressed me well, made sure I received a good education, taught me about the Lord, and invested in whatever interested me.

When I wanted to play football, they made sure I had everything I needed. I have always been a stocky guy, and one year my coach tried to put me in a uniform that was too small because they did not have my size. My mother was not having that. She told that coach to go to the bigger boys’ locker room and find her son a uniform that fit. That was Momma. She did not play when it came to her children. If she believed something was not right concerning one of us, everybody involved was going to know about it.

Eventually, an injury meant football was no longer an option for me, so my attention shifted more seriously toward something I had already been doing since I was around four years old: playing the piano. Momma made sure I had lessons, and not just any lessons. I probably went through about five teachers before she found one she was satisfied with. One teacher apparently was not treating me very well, and once Momma realized it, those lessons ended immediately. We never went back to that lady’s house again.

For a while, there probably was not much evidence that her investment was going to pay off because I played “Mary Had a Little Lamb” everywhere I went. There may have been legitimate concern that this would be the full extent of my musical career, but my parents kept encouraging me. Eventually, I began playing at my home church, and something started developing inside of me.

When I began taking music lessons in school, one of my teachers eventually discovered something I had managed to hide for a while: I could play by ear. Whenever she introduced a new piece of music, I would ask her to play it first so I could “hear how it was supposed to sound.” She would play it, and then I would sit down, stare confidently at the sheet music as though I knew exactly what I was doing, and play what I had just heard.

She thought I was reading the music until one day she got smart. She placed one piece of music in front of me but intentionally played something completely different. I sat down, looked at the sheet music, and confidently played exactly what she had played instead of what was actually written on the page. I was caught. That was the moment she realized I had a gift for playing by ear, and from there she knew how to work with me differently.

Through every stage of discovering that gift, Momma was there. My parents eventually bought me my first professional keyboard, a purple Kurzweil SP88, and I played that thing every day. Later, they bought me a Yamaha synthesizer. They invested in something they could see in me long before I fully understood what that gift would eventually become.

As our family grew and our lives continued to unfold, God eventually called us far beyond Texas. Our family moved to Namibia, Africa, as missionaries, and Momma embraced the assignment completely. She served in women’s ministry, Sunday school, children’s ministry, outreach, and anywhere else she saw a need. Momma loved crafts, so naturally she found ways to use that creativity to bring children together, allow them to make things, have fun, and learn about Jesus at the same time.

One ministry became especially close to her heart and became affectionately known as her “Bread and Butter” ministry. Outside the local Spar, Momma encountered orphaned and underserved children and began feeding them. That simple act says so much about who Gloria Johnson was. If somebody needed food, she wanted to feed them. If somebody needed encouragement, she wanted to encourage them. If somebody needed prayer, she would pray. If children needed someone to teach them, love them, or simply notice them, Momma found a way to do it.

She did not need a platform, a title, or recognition. She saw a need, and she responded.

After our missionary years in Africa, our family eventually returned to the United States and settled in Preston, Georgia. There, that same nurturing and serving spirit continued. Momma homeschooled her children and later became a paraprofessional at Webster County Elementary School. Children loved her because she genuinely loved children. Her life consistently pointed people toward Jesus, not simply through what she said, but through how she treated people.

As we grew older and life began taking each of us in different directions, our family remained incredibly connected. Daily FaceTime calls became part of our normal routine. We talked, laughed, joked, checked on each other, and sometimes called with absolutely nothing important to say. We were just family.

Then COVID changed everything.

I contracted COVID when it first reached the United States, and I became extremely sick. At the time, I had two children at home. My oldest, Isaac, did his best to take care of things while I was in bed. His menu was impressive for a child trying to hold everything together: oatmeal for breakfast, noodles for lunch, microwave pizza for dinner. He would bring food to me even though I could barely eat.

After about four days, my condition became significantly worse. Mom called, and when I finally answered the phone, I could barely breathe. She heard my voice, and that was all she needed. From Georgia, Momma called 911 and had emergency services sent to my house in the Houston area. Then she grabbed her purse, headed to the airport, and caught the first flight she could to Texas.

That was Gloria Johnson. There was no committee meeting. There was no lengthy discussion. Her son was sick, so Momma was coming.

This was during the height of COVID restrictions, so when she arrived at the hospital, she could not come into my room. While a respiratory therapist was treating me, a nurse walked into my room and told me there was a woman named Gloria Johnson outside yelling and demanding information about me. I told them, “Please give her whatever she wants, or she is going to tear this hospital up!” And I meant it.

She could not physically come into my room, but she called constantly to make sure I was okay. Afterward, Momma came to my home near The Woodlands area in Texas and took over. And when I say she took over, I mean she took over.

She put on protective gear and sanitized everything. Anything she believed I had touched that could not be properly cleaned was probably headed straight for the trash. She stayed with me as I recovered, which took nearly a month. Every morning, she made sure I ate. She would bring me eggs, bacon, and toast. She kept my hospital cup filled with fresh, cold water. She checked on me, cared for me, and made sure I had everything I needed.

Of course, during this period she also committed what I considered one of the greatest offenses imaginable: she opened my curtains.

Anybody who knows me knows I love my blackout curtains. Momma walked through my house opening curtains and blinds, declaring, “You need some light in this place!” At the time, I was probably thinking, No, I absolutely do not. Today, I would give anything to watch her open those curtains again.

Those are the memories grief has a way of making precious. The moments that once seemed ordinary become treasures because the person attached to them can no longer walk through the door.

My mother had always been an impeccable woman—strong, intelligent, faithful, organized, loving, independent, and constantly doing something for somebody else. Then life brought our family into a battle none of us wanted to fight.

Momma was diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive form of brain cancer. It is an incredibly difficult disease to treat because of how rapidly it can grow and how it can infiltrate surrounding brain tissue. Even after surgery removes visible tumors, microscopic cancer cells can remain, which is why recurrence is common. Treatment can involve surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, and other therapies intended to control or slow the disease.

But if you knew my mother, you already know she was going to fight.

And fight she did.

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She underwent two brain surgeries. After her first surgery, the doctors prepared us for the possibility that she might wake up having difficulty speaking or remembering certain things. Apparently, Momma took that personally. She woke up from anesthesia talking and immediately started telling us our birthdays and Social Security numbers. We were saying, “Mom, slow down!”

She took pride in knowing the birthdays and Social Security numbers of all five of her children, and she wanted everybody in that room to understand something: Gloria Johnson’s memory was still there. She recovered and continued living. Later, she underwent a second brain surgery on the opposite side of her brain. Again, she came out talking. Again, she kept going. Again, she fought.

One of the most remarkable parts of Momma’s journey was that even while battling glioblastoma herself, she continued looking for ways to help somebody else. She created a Facebook community for people affected by glioblastoma, and that group eventually grew to nearly 2,000 people.

Think about that for a moment. While walking through one of the most difficult battles imaginable herself, my mother created a place where nearly 2,000 people could connect, encourage one another, share their experiences, ask questions, and realize they were not fighting alone.

That was Gloria.

When life hurt her, she still looked for somebody she could help. When she needed encouragement herself, she encouraged somebody else. When she was fighting for her own life, she helped other people fight for theirs.

That Facebook community became another extension of the same heart that had fed children outside the Spar in Africa, taught children in Georgia, served women in ministry, raised five children, and cared for anyone God placed in her path. The location changed. The circumstances changed. The need changed. But her heart never did.

Eventually, however, the tumors returned. Her doctors attempted different treatments in an effort to control the disease, but some became increasingly difficult for her immune system to tolerate. She later suffered a mini-stroke, and over time walking became more difficult. Eventually, hospice became part of her care.

That transition was especially difficult for Momma because she had spent almost her entire life doing things for other people. Serving was natural to her. Helping was natural to her. Taking care of people was natural to her. Depending on other people was not.

Sometimes she would ask me, “What do I need to do?” and I would tell her, “Momma, just rest. We don’t need you to do anything.” But rest was difficult for a woman who had spent her entire life serving.

As her condition progressed, her memory began failing more frequently, but the phone calls continued. Sometimes Momma would call at 1 a.m., then 3 a.m., then 4 a.m., 5 a.m., and 6 a.m. Whenever Momma called, I answered. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes she was confused. Sometimes she was frustrated. Sometimes she simply needed reassurance and to hear a familiar voice.

My father, sister, and brother were there in Georgia providing much of her physical care. My dad sacrificed tremendously to make sure the woman he loved was comfortable. There were nights when he barely slept because he was watching over her and making sure she had everything she needed.

In May 2026, I traveled to Georgia to spend time with Momma. During that visit, she suffered another mini-stroke and had to be hospitalized. As difficult as that experience was, I am incredibly grateful today that I was there. I got to love on my Momma. I got to sit with her, talk with her, spend time with her, and make memories that mean more to me now than I could possibly have understood at the time.

Then came August 8, 2026.

That was the day my mother completed her earthly journey.

And when she left, it felt like somebody ripped my heart out. There really is no more sophisticated way for me to explain it.

How do you adequately describe losing the woman who had been there from the very beginning? The woman who protected you, prayed for you, corrected you, encouraged you, worried about you, invested in you, and saw something in you before you could see it yourself? The woman who bought the instruments that helped cultivate your gift, flew across the country because she heard you struggling to breathe on the telephone, made you breakfast when you were sick, opened your curtains when you absolutely did not want them opened, called you at all hours of the night, loved your children, loved her family, loved people, and above everything else, loved God?

Momma leaves behind her loving husband, Jimmie Johnson; her children, Jeremiah Johnson, Melissa Mitchell, Isaiah Johnson, Paulus Johnson, and Nehemiah Johnson; her grandchildren, Terrence Clark Jr., Malachi Johnson, Aniyah Mitchell, Isaac Johnson, and Donte Anderson; and her great-grandson, Kyro Anderson. She also leaves behind her siblings, extended family, friends, church family, former students, and countless people whose lives were made better simply because Gloria Johnson was part of them. She was preceded in death by her beloved grandson, Bentley Johnson, whose memory remained close to her heart.

But Momma left behind much more than names that can be written in an obituary.

She left evidence that she was here.

There is evidence in her children and grandchildren. There is evidence in the children she fed in Africa and the students she taught in Georgia. There is evidence in the women she encouraged, the people she prayed for, and every person she cared for simply because she recognized that they needed someone. There is evidence in a Facebook community of nearly 2,000 people who were brought together because, while battling glioblastoma herself, Gloria Johnson decided that other people fighting the same disease should not have to fight alone.

And there is evidence in me.

Every time I sit down at a keyboard, there is evidence. Every time I use the gift she refused to allow me to give up on, there is evidence. Every time I minister through music, there is a piece of the investment my mother and father made in that little boy who once played “Mary Had a Little Lamb” everywhere he went.

Momma, I will always love you. I miss you in a way that words simply cannot explain, but I am grateful. I am grateful for every lesson, every correction, every laugh, every FaceTime call, every prayer, every meal, every sacrifice, every late-night phone call, every time you stood up for me, every time you believed in me, and every time you reminded me that I was loved.

Even every curtain you opened.

Everything you taught me, I will carry, and I will teach those lessons to my children. Your physical presence may be gone, but your legacy is not. It lives in us.

You fought. You served. You loved. You believed.

And now, Momma, you can finally rest.

No more treatments. No more tumors. No more surgeries. No more struggling to walk. No more frustration because your body will not allow you to do what your heart wants to do. No more fighting.

I believe you are finally healed, finally free, and finally at rest.

Rest well, Momma. I will always love you. Your memory will live on. Your faith will live on.

Your love will live on.

And your legacy will live on for generations to come.

I LOVE YOU MOMMA.