Last Saturday, I attended the funeral of one of my best friend’s dads. It was tender and sacred—one of those moments where time slows down, and the noise of the world fades into the background. Sitting in that chapel, surrounded by people who loved him, I listened to his children stand and share stories from their hearts.
They spoke of quiet strength. Of consistency. Of unconditional love. Of how he showed up—not with grand gestures, but with small, steady acts of kindness. Their words didn’t come from a place of performance or obligation; they came from a place of reverence, admiration, and deep love. And as I sat there, a lump forming in my throat, I couldn’t help but ask myself a question that surprised me:
“What will my children say about me someday?”
Will they remember me cheering in the stands, probably louder than anyone else—embarrassing them a little but making sure they never wondered if I was proud of them?
Will they remember me in their classrooms, volunteering on those chaotic Valentine’s party days, helping glue googly eyes onto crafts and wiping chocolate from little faces?
Will they remember the late nights helping with school projects, staying up until midnight taping things together and Googling facts for history reports that were, of course, due the next morning?
Will they remember the books we read again and again—”When You Give a Mouse a Strawberry” and all the others—my voice steady and warm, even when I was exhausted?
What about the Indian rain dances in the middle of the street, twirling in the downpour just because we could?
Will they smile when they think of our “Super Saturdays”—full of pancakes, forts, homemade crafts, and sticky fingers?
Will they remember our Disney trips—not for the picture-perfect moments, but for the laughter, the meltdowns, and the feeling of being together in a magical place?
Will they remember me sitting by their side with a damp washcloth on their forehead when they were sick, whispering that everything was going to be okay?
Will they know how desperately I prayed for them behind closed doors?
The truth is, I’m not a perfect mom. I have regrets. I’ve raised my voice too many times. I’ve had moments where I let my own heartaches or exhaustion get the better of me. But I’ve also loved fiercely, with everything I have.
As I sat in that chapel, the Spirit whispered a reminder to my heart: “Melissa, legacy isn’t in the loud moments. It’s in the love.”
It brought to mind the scripture in John 13:35:
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”
If I want to be remembered for anything, let it be that I loved. Let it be that I showed up. That I made space for laughter and made room for their tears. That I taught them, even imperfectly, to turn to Christ. That I left them better, not because I was perfect, but because I pointed them to the One who is.
I believe with all my heart that God makes up the difference. That where I fall short, His grace steps in. That the legacy I leave isn’t just written in scrapbooks or memory boxes, but in the way my children feel when they think of home.
Funerals have a way of pressing pause on life and asking us the questions we usually avoid. Are we living in a way that honors what matters most? Are we choosing connection over convenience, love over perfection, faith over fear?
That day, as the sun streamed through the windows and stories were shared through tears, I made a quiet commitment to the Lord—and to myself—that I want to live more intentionally. More tenderly. That I want my kids to remember me not just for what I did, but for who I was when I was with them. I want them to know how amazing they are and how they make this world a better place. That they were my world. That no matter the paths they choose in life, I will always love them and be so very proud of each of them.
And maybe one day, long from now, when someone stands at a pulpit to speak about me, they’ll say I was far from perfect… but that I loved deeply. That I laughed loudly. That I danced in the rain. That I served the Lord. And that I never stopped believing in the power of love, redemption, and second chances.
Because at the end of it all, I don’t want to be remembered for the life I built—I want to be remembered for the hearts I touched.
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