The Moments that Matter

We all know that one day we’ll lose someone we love. Most of us aren’t ready, and that’s okay. Because how can someone ever be ready for something like that?

My mom was sick for most of my life, constantly in and out of hospitals. I practically grew up in pharmacies and doctor’s offices. That shaped everything from my childhood to my perspective on health and even how I navigated relationships. It also made our relationship complicated, because the love and lessons she gave me came alongside worry and pain.

In the last few years of her life, I didn’t see her as often as I wished, partly because she lived far away and work kept me busy. Losing my mom marked the first time I had faced the loss of someone truly close to me. While I was young when my grandparents passed, I had never known the deep, enduring grief that comes with losing a parent. It made every moment we shared even more precious.

Mom was a proud Italian from Long Island with a big heart, a strong will, and a voice that made everything she said feel more real, direct, and full of spirit. She had humor, spontaneity, and a love for others that radiated even in difficult times. I remember wanting a new video game system as a child and being told, “Not right now.” We didn’t have much because she was a single mom living on a fixed disability income, but on the way home, I begged her again and she turned the car around to buy it. That was her, willing to go the extra mile to make her children happy even if it meant the electric bill was now past due another month. Those small gestures left a mark that still lingers.

She also taught me through everyday life. The smells of her cooking, from linguine with clams to chocolate chip cookies, her careful decorating, her laughter, and singing all created a home full of love. Christmas was always absolutely magical, but her faith wasn’t seasonal. It was the foundation of her life. Even in her suffering, she always praised Jesus. That strength and devotion shaped the way I see love, perseverance, and grace.

She wanted me to grow up with a strong faith, shaping my life in ways I would come to appreciate later. Each summer, she found a way to send me to Victory Valley Camp despite money being tight. At my mom’s funeral, I played a recording of myself singing “Lord, I Lift Your Name on High,” a song I had once sung around the campfire. It was a way to honor her devotion and the values she instilled in me. Even during the years I drifted from my faith, she continued to pray for me, trusting that I would eventually find my way in Christ.

My mom wasn’t perfect and our relationship wasn’t without its challenges, but she had done the best she could, and that was enough. One memory that has stayed with me happened about a year before she passed. She had to undergo a risky procedure because of her health, and the doctors suggested I talk to her about it. I told her, “You know, mom, this might not go as well as we hope.” Then I added, “I just want to thank you for being a good mom.” Without missing a beat, she smiled and said, “Well, thank you for being a good son!” That quick exchange, full of love and understanding, hit me instantly and I had to hold back tears. It reminded me that gratitude and acceptance can exist even in complicated relationships.

Shortly before my mom passed, I was filming things around the room, not knowing when the end would finally come. The last thing she ever said to me was, “I love you, darling. Very much.” That short recording (captured almost by accident) reminds me of the quiet, profound memories that stay with us long after someone is gone. After a lifetime of fighting illness, she appeared at peace. In that exchange, I now see that she was quietly saying goodbye.

That experience taught me something about the kind of life I want to lead. Life isn’t defined by milestones or big events. It’s made up of small, everyday moments that become extraordinary once they are gone. Honoring someone isn’t always about grand gestures. It’s about noticing what matters while you have the chance and using what you have been given, whether time, love, or resources, to create meaning for others.

Even though our relationship had ups and downs, my mom taught me how to love, to care, and to hold on to what matters despite pain and uncertainty. One of the most important lessons she taught me was that the way we live can echo in the lives of others. Her legacy isn’t just in the things she did for me or the words she spoke. It’s in how she showed me that you can still build something meaningful when life is tough. She didn’t just give love. She helped others see their worth.

I carry that lesson with me through my work with Bricks for Good. Just as she nurtured my growth, I now aim to help children grow, find their place in the world, and experience the power of love, creativity, and community.

Beyond giving Christmas gifts to children in need, our mission is to create moments that matter. Moments of joy, dignity, and feeling seen.

I’ve watched children’s faces light up when they open a gift. I’ve seen parents smile in relief and gratitude. I’ve seen volunteers move from simple acts of service to genuine exchanges that leave lasting memories.

Those moments don’t last forever, but their impact does. They become part of someone’s story, just as the brief moments I shared with my mom became part of mine.

I strive to embody the lessons my mom instilled in me by caring for others, giving generously, and expressing love in ways that truly matter. It brings to mind Mr. Rogers, the ordained minister who ran a children’s show teaching moral values subtly, without directly discussing faith. Like him, I hope to make a quiet, meaningful impact in people’s lives through small acts of love.

Losing my mom reminded me that life is fragile and grief can be a mix of shock, mourning, and gratitude in ways you never expect. Her legacy wasn’t measured in wealth or possessions. It was measured in faith, devotion, and the ways she poured herself into her family. The laughter, the lessons, and the quiet gestures of care are what endure.

If there’s one takeaway I hope to leave you with, it’s this: notice the moments that matter. Preserve them when you can. Share them freely. And when possible, use them to make life a little brighter for someone else. Life is fleeting, but the small acts of love, generosity, and care we share with others can truly make a difference.

I love you, Mom.

Lee Barber is the founder and chairman of Bricks for Good, a nonprofit dedicated to bringing fun, happiness, and hope to all children through the power of LEGO® play. Inspired by his own challenging upbringing, Lee launched Bricks for Good to offer underprivileged children opportunities for creativity, empowerment, and learning. With a background in both humanities and technology, along with a lifelong commitment to service, Lee is dedicated to creating lasting, positive change in the lives of others.

Learn more at www.bricksforgood.org, or check out Facebook and Instagram.