What will people say when your name comes up. Will they smile as they tell a story that makes everyone else smile too? Will there be laughter—real laughter—shared over moments you were part of? Will they talk about experiences they had with you, not just things you did, but how you made them feel?
Will they say you were a good person? That you showed up when they needed someone the most? That you helped carry them through a hard season? Will someone say you were the only person who made them feel human when the world felt cold? That you had their back when no one else would? That you would do anything to make people laugh, to lighten the heaviness, to bring joy into a room? That people wanted you around, not because you were perfect, but because you were unapologetically you.
If I have learned anything through all of this hurt and pain, it’s that I want to strive to be more like my son. I want the stories told about me to be filled with laughter, with warmth, with forgiveness. I want them to speak of love freely given, of grace extended, of hearts made lighter simply because I was there.
I want more than anything to live loudly and fully while I’m here. I want to sing at the top of my lungs and not care how awful it sounds. I want to make people laugh and smile when they think of me, even long after I’m gone. I want to leave an impression on people’s hearts, not just pass through their lives unnoticed.
I want people to say she never met a stranger. That she was scared of nothing that truly mattered. That she lived every day like it could be her last and trusted tomorrow to take care of itself when it arrived. That she chose joy when she could, love always, and showed up fully, imperfectly, but wholeheartedly.
That’s the life I want to live now.
Because in the end, it’s not the years we live that matter most...it’s the stories that live on after us. And I want mine to sound a lot like his.