What Will I Be Remembered For?

There’s something I think about regularly —
not because I’m nearing the end, but because I want to live more intentionally in the middle of it all.

I think about the years ahead:
5, 10, 20, even 40 years from now.
What kind of life will I have built?
Will I look back with peace — knowing I gave my whole heart to the people who mattered most?
Will my child know how deeply he was loved?
Will my faith have shaped the way I showed up for others?

When I’m no longer here and I’ve returned to dust,
what will remain of me?

Will the people I loved still feel my love in how I made them feel?
Will the seeds I planted still be bearing fruit in someone else’s life?

I know that sounds heavy.
But maybe we all need to think about it sometimes.

Because legacy isn’t about fame or big moments.
It’s about presence.
Consistency.
Grace.

It’s in the quiet choices that no one sees.
The love we give freely, without condition.
The way we keep showing up — even when it’s hard.

So what do I hope I’m remembered for?

I hope I’m remembered as someone who gave her all
to the people who were entrusted to her care.
That when the sun sets and the moon rises,
you’ll still know that my love for Jesus was constant — not just in my words,
but in how I tried to love you, too.

Am I perfect? Certainly not.
But I want to live today — and every day I’m given —
with the kind of love that leaves something lasting behind.

Because in the end, that’s what I hope they remember:

That I knew Him.
And I tried to show you His love
in how I lived.


Anchor Verse:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
Psalm 90:12 (NIV)

What Stayed Becomes the Legacy

I could make a list of all the things that left.
The people.
The promises.
The versions of life I thought I’d get to live.

But maybe it matters more to name what stayed.

The quiet strength I didn’t know I had.
The still, small voice that kept whispering, “Keep going.”
The arms that held my child even when mine were trembling.
The Presence that never walked out — even when everything else did.

What stayed wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand attention.
It didn’t come with guarantees.

But it carried me.

And now?
Now I see it for what it is —
a legacy.

Because this love —
the one that stayed,
the one that steadied,
the one that kept showing up when no one was watching —
that’s what I get to pass on.

Not a perfect story.
But a faithful one.

He may not remember every hard day.
He won’t know how many battles I fought silently —
But he will carry the way I loved him.
Steady. Present. Unshaken by what tried to undo me.

This isn’t just healing.
This is inheritance.
This love — this staying —
is the legacy I leave.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:13