Lately my grandmother has been on my heart.

Not in a grieving way. In a remembering way.

Sometimes I’ll look up from my computer or from the television, and in my mind, I see her standing there smiling. Other times I see us at night, after prayer, laying in the bed talking about life. And then there’s my favorite image. Her at the kitchen table with her Bible open and a glass of milk mixed with Pepsi. Yes, milk and Pepsi. I had forgotten about that until recently. Funny how certain memories wait until you’re ready for them.

As I get older, the questions I have about her are different.

When I was young, I just loved her. I ran to hug her. I felt safe with her. Always comfort. Always warmth.
Now I find myself wanting to ask her about her dreams.

What did you want as a young girl?
Did you imagine marrying and living in Mound Bayou, Mississippi? Did you plan on raising seven children? Did you always know you would go back to school later in life and earn your degree? Or did life unfold in ways you never expected?

We look at the lives of those who came before us and see what they built. We don’t always see what they once imagined.

I also think about her and my mother. They loved each other deeply. That I know. But their closeness looked different than mine did with her. I used to run and hug my grandmother. I ran and hugged my mom too. But I didn’t always see that same outward affection between them.
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant. It was just different.
Every generation carries something different. Some things get softer over time. Some things remain unspoken. And maybe that’s okay.

What I do know is this. I come from strong women. Women of faith. Women who prayed at kitchen tables. Women who endured things they never fully spoke about. Women who kept going.

I also come from strong men.
My father. My uncles. My brother.
They shaped me too.
I watched how they carried themselves. How they provided. How they protected. How they loved their families. And in my young mind, I thought, “That’s what I want.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t have the model. I had it. I saw what a man was supposed to be. I raised my boys to be that kind of man.

If I’m honest, the part I’m still unpacking is why I didn’t always choose that for myself.

That’s not on God. That’s not on the examples I was given. That’s on me. Growth means being honest about that without shame.

But here’s the beautiful part.
Legacy is not just about what we inherit. It’s about what we refine.
The women who prayed before me.
The men who modeled strength before me.

They built a foundation.

I am proud of the women I come from. I am proud of the men who shaped my expectations. I am proud of the faith that anchored them and now anchors me.

Maybe the greatest honor I can give my grandmother is this:
To keep building.
To keep believing.
To keep asking deeper questions.
And to make sure the next generation doesn’t have to wonder who I was or what I dreamed.

Because I’m writing it down. ☺️😉