In the first days that he’d known her, she was known as Betty Jo. Back when their skin was without wrinkle. She had a sparkle in her smiling blue eyes that would prove to be one of her best known features. She spoke with grace, lived with elegance, and loved those she knew. Deeply. She was a true lady, in every sense of the word.

But now, nearly two and a half years after her death, it still seemed as though something was missing each time this large family gathered. Perhaps it would always feel this way.

He signaled for his son to get everyone’s attention, and then pulled a small note out of his shirt pocket with shaky hands. He began reading in a slow, steady voice…

“Do you remember her love for Jesus?
Do you remember her powerful prayers?
Do you remember the ribbons she’d always have delicately tied in her hair?
Do you remember the candy she’d have tucked in her purse to give to her beloved grandchildren?
Do you remember her USED Bible?
Do you remember her faithfulness in attending church since ‘it wasn’t Sunday if she didn’t go?’
Do you remember her signature Raush whistle?
Do you remember her smile?
Do you remember you had the best Mammaw there ever was?”

I cannot begin to express the impression my grandmother, Mammaw, left on my life in the fourteen years I was blessed to know her. A woman of strong faith, obvious joy, and endless love. I want to leave a legacy just as Mammaw did. I can only hope to be a fraction of the woman of God that she was.

“I want to leave a legacy, how will they remember me? Did I choose to love? Did I point to you enough to make a mark on things? I want to leave an offering. A child of mercy and grace who blessed your name, unapologetically. And leave that kind of legacy.” — Legacy, Nicole Nordeman