Louise
Eid
Louise Eid
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum
with our whole hearts.
a love letter, by your children
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From the cedars,
she came carrying light.

Mum was born in Lebanon. She left it the way few people leave anywhere: pursued for her faith, holding her family close, folding her whole world into a single breath of hope.

She arrived as an immigrant and chose, every single day after, to be grateful. For safety. For oxygen. For another morning. Gratitude isn’t a phase she goes through. It’s the air she breathes.

Whatever she has, she is thankful for. Even the cedars she left in Lebanon envy her abundance.

a long flight that she still calls a miracle

Faith, the steady fire that has lit every room she has ever stood in.

Mum doesn’t talk about her faith as something she does on Sundays. She lives it in the way she answers the phone, in the way she sets a table for one more, in the way she prays for people who have no idea she is praying for them.

She believes God brought her family out of harm so they could spend the rest of their lives bringing other people in. That is exactly what she has done, quietly, for forty years.

“In every season, she has been the one who keeps the candle burning.”

Gaby.
Forever & ever.

My father is a pastor. My mother is the reason he can be one. She has loved him through every sermon, every late call, every season of building, with a devotion that does not flicker.

Forty years on, they still hold hands like they have just met. She still laughs at his jokes louder than anyone in the room. He still looks at her like he is grateful.

This is the love story we grew up watching. We are taking notes.

0years
of choosing each other  ·  on purpose
Louise and Gaby at the beach
Louise and Gaby in the city
Louise and Gaby with flowers
A quiet moment at a cafe
Louise and Gaby on a slow morning
A small moment at home together

Four hearts
that beat because she did first.

She raised four of us. While running an office, leading a Sunday school, holding a ladies’ ministry together, playing piano, and somehow still cooking like a household of twelve was about to walk in.

She is fierce. Sometimes a little too fierce, with a loyalty that arrives before you ask for it and stays long after the danger has gone. We have all felt that loyalty catch us, more than once.

Every one of us, in our own quiet way, is a remix of her.

0
children
0
years young
0
years of marriage
∞
love given freely
The Eid family together
the table she has been setting our whole lives

The room
always sounds better when she is in it.

Mum is, before anything else, an artist. Music runs through her like weather. Her hands on a piano. Her voice leading the choir. The way colour and rhythm and joy seem to follow her into a room and stay there long after she leaves.

If you have ever heard her sing, you know. If you have ever watched her dance with a child during a hymn, you know. There is no minor key in her.

“Music is the way she prays out loud.”

Mum, quiet and luminous
still the most luminous person in any room
play her a note

The glue
no one ever sees, holding everything together.

Every ministry needs a hidden hero. Ours has a name and a laugh and a piano in her living room. She runs the operations of the church the way other people run countries. Quietly, completely, and with a tea in hand.

She has held doors open for people the world had closed doors on. She has sat with women going through things you would never know about, and let them be held. She has taught children that they are loved by name, including the ones who could not believe it.

0quiet roles she has held, all at once
  • Sunday school
    Three decades of small hands and big stories.
  • Ladies’ ministry
    The room every woman knew she could fall apart in.
  • Choir
    Voices borrowed from heaven, on her cue.
  • Piano
    The first instrument the church learned to follow.
  • Operations
    Every detail held quietly, behind every Sunday.
  • Hospitality
    Doors that opened before they were knocked on.

A letter,
on the day that is yours.

tap to send love

Mum,

Sixty years on this earth, and you still walk into a room like you have just heard good news. I do not know how you do it. I have stopped trying to figure it out and started trying to copy it.

Thank you for the cedars. Thank you for the long flight. Thank you for choosing gratitude before safety, every single morning of your life. Thank you for loving Dad the way you have, so the four of us grew up knowing what real, ordinary, decades-deep love actually looks like.

Thank you for the Sundays. The piano. The choir. The children whose names you remember. The women who could fall apart in your kitchen and leave whole. Thank you for being the room everyone else gets to lean into.

Thank you for being a little too loyal. A little too fierce on our behalf. A little too quick to fight for us before we even know we need fighting for. We feel every bit of it. We always have.

There are a lot of women in my life I admire. None of them stand where you do. You are the standard. The measuring stick. The proof that someone can be both soft and unbreakable in the same breath.

On this day that is yours, here is the small thing I can give back. A page that says, in plain words, what we feel every day and rarely slow down to say.

We love you. Forever, fiercely, and out loud.

Your children

Sydney  ·  Mother’s Day  ·  2026
with our whole hearts  ·  always
Mum, mid-laugh
forever, Mum.
the laugh we hear in our heads, always