What They Will Carry

With death comes a lot of reflection.

I think it’s only natural… and maybe even necessary.

Lately, my thoughts have wandered in a hundred different directions, but they keep finding their way back to the same place:

Impact.

And more specifically… how I will be remembered by my children.

I find myself wondering what they’ll actually see when they look back on their childhood.

Will they remember the hours I spent worrying about what they eat…
who they do life with…
whether their sleep is good enough…
if I’m doing enough?

Will they see the moments I sat with guilt after a hard day of parenting, wishing I had spoken softer or had more patience when they lost theirs?

Will they know how many prayers were whispered over them… pleaded over them… in the quiet moments they never saw?

The honest answer is…

I don’t know if they will.

But I do know this:

They will feel it.

They will feel what it’s like for their mom to come back after a hard moment and apologize.

They will feel what it’s like to be surrounded by people who love and care for them.

They will feel safe and cozy in their bed at night.

They will feel a hug that lingers just a little longer.

They will feel what it’s like when I sit on the floor and color with them, play Barbies, go for a walk, or push them on the swings.

Those are the things that settle into their hearts.

And maybe one day, when they have little hearts of their own to steward, they’ll begin to see the parts they couldn’t fully understand when they were small.

But for now… they feel it.

And that’s enough.

The truth is, these little minds and hearts we’ve been given to steward don’t need much in the way of flashy, curated moments.

They just need us.

Our time.
Our attention.
Our love.

And yet, somewhere along the way, it’s easy to believe that what they’ll remember most are the big things.

The perfectly planned experiences.
The special outings.
The “core memories.”

So we try to create them.

We put pressure on ourselves to make things feel meaningful, memorable, intentional.

But I’ve been realizing something lately.

Sometimes, in the pursuit of creating meaningful moments, we unintentionally add pressure that pulls us away from the very thing that makes them meaningful in the first place.

Presence.

If you’re in the motherhood or church space at all, you’ve probably heard the word intentionality more times than you can count.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve wrestled with that word a little.

Because I do live an intentional life.

I don’t do much by accident. I think through what I’m doing, how I’m doing it, when I’m doing it.

But I’ve realized that intention alone isn’t always the full picture.

Because intention without purpose can quietly turn into pressure.

For me, my “why” can get a little misplaced.

I create these beautiful moments for my kids thinking, this is what they’ll remember… this is what will make them feel special.

And maybe they will remember parts of it.

But what they will carry even more are the small, consistent deposits.

The patience.

The time.

The love.

The moments where I get down on their level and enter into their world — even if it’s just for ten minutes while dinner finishes cooking.

That’s what builds something lasting.

After my father-in-law passed, I was talking with a friend, and she asked me something that has stayed with me:

“Do you think he lived a life of intention on purpose? Like, did he wake up every day and say, ‘I need to be intentional today’?”

And the answer, honestly, is no.

He didn’t live that way.

He didn’t wake up with a checklist of ways to be intentional.

But he did live a life of purpose.

He knew that people mattered.

That his people mattered.

And he lived out of the overflow of who he was.

He didn’t have to schedule time to talk to his boys.

He didn’t have to force connection.

It was just a natural extension of a life rooted in love, presence, and care.

And that has been quietly reshaping the way I think about motherhood.

Because maybe it’s not about trying so hard to create perfect, intentional moments.

Maybe it’s about becoming the kind of person who lives with purpose… and letting that naturally flow into the way we show up.

Showing up when it’s easy.
Showing up when it’s hard.
Showing up in the ordinary, everyday spaces that don’t feel significant.

Because those are the moments that add up.

Those are the moments that shape what our children feel.

Motherhood isn’t built in picture-perfect, curated snapshots.

In fact, those moments — while beautiful — are not what sustain a child’s heart.

It’s built in the in-between.

In the daily rhythms.

In the consistency of being there.

And when we start to believe that it has to look a certain way — perfectly planned, beautifully executed — it can actually pull us away from the simplicity of what our kids really need.

Which is us.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

Just present.

So maybe the question isn’t, How can I be more intentional today?

Maybe the question is, Am I living with purpose?

Am I showing up for my people?
Am I giving them my time, my attention, my heart?

Because when that’s in place, the moments will take care of themselves.

They won’t need to be forced or curated.

They’ll just… happen.

And one day, when our children look back, I don’t think what they’ll remember most is how perfect everything was.

I think they’ll remember how it felt to be loved.

To be known.

To be chosen in the middle of an ordinary day.

And that kind of impact doesn’t come from pressure.

It comes from presence.

From a life lived on purpose.

And from a mother who kept showing up — again and again — right where she was.

You're doing good mama, keep going. ❤️