On March 9, my godmother, Kimberly Keaton, died after going into cardiac arrest.

It was shocking news to the family, though she'd been sick her entire life.

Kim had kidney failure since she was a child and that ailment later became the catalyst in her contracting heart disease. Doctors were certain she would not live past her early teenage years.

She was 48 when she died.

Kim was one of those people who unknowingly lifted everyone's spirits, disregarding the fact she was the one who probably needed the most emotional encouragement.

A few years ago, she underwent an amputation above the knee, leaving her dependent upon a wheelchair.

Despite her mobility restrictions, you'd never know that she was in much more pain than most other people.

She was a rock that anyone could confide in. She possessed an outlook on life that many people weren't blessed to have.

I think about the impact she had on the lives of others and find it excessively selfish for people to place their problems before hers.

Did anyone stop to see how she was doing? Did anyone ask how she felt about her steadily declining health?

Her funeral was held on a windy Sunday afternoon. I rode with my sister on that melancholy day and arrived 10 minutes shy of the start time.

Already, the church was swollen with mourners.

Upon entering the sanctuary, we were greeted by hundreds of inquiring faces, probably questioning where we intended to sit. There wasn't an empty seat left and the shoulder-to-shoulder seating arrangement confirmed that for me.

Our only option was to sit up in the choir loft, facing the entire church. To the choir loft we tip-toed, trying not to disturb anyone's cries with our loud footsteps.

The mourners stared at the center of the church, as did we. There it was, my godmother's bright casket, covered with mass floral arrangements and pictures.

I watched a slideshow on the wall that played from a projector. There were hundreds of pictures of Kim from birth through to months before her death.

I saw pictures of my younger chubbier self with her, too, and anticipated the slideshow hurrying to the next picture.

Subdued sniffles came from the pews. There were moist eyes and fresh tissue boxes.

I gazed analytically and almost methodically around the sanctuary. I saw so many family members I hadn't seen in more than a decade. Plenty of aunts and cousins to go around, but I couldn't remember their names if someone paid me.

Kim's brothers delivered speeches and gave an array of emotions. They started off understandably upset, but told us of childhood memories that brightened the mood and led to laughter.

But nothing could change the fact that Kim lay cold and lifeless just feet away.

It was at that moment I finally came to terms with the notion that we were actually at Kim's funeral.

She wasn't a lady I once heard about or knew little of. She was a woman who helped raise me.

If it hadn't been for Kim, I wouldn't have been able to graduate from college. She unselfishly helped fund my and my siblings' tuition when my mom desperately needed help.

In one of the last conversations I had with Kim, she assured me that I was fearless and beautiful and could conquer any impediment.

"You've always been on the move since you were a little girl, Hara Boo," she said while sporting that bright smile.

Her words helped me live in my worth and become excited for my future at a time when I'd lost my momentum.

For that, I am most grateful.

To Kim: Thank you for being a second mom to me. I am honored to have known such a pure and genuine soul.

Rest peacefully, Godmommy.

Zahara Johnson's column appears regularly in b.