The sun had set, and the tables were lit with soft-colored candles, their flames fluttering in the gentle Texas wind. My daughter, Jenni, had just danced her first dance with her new husband, and the crowd was getting ready for dinner to be served. While the bride and groom were glowing and everything was planned to perfection, a moment, just one sweet little scene, caught my attention as I sat down.

There on the dance floor, all by themselves, were my son Tim and his then two-year-old daughter Jordan. On unsteady feet, Jordan reached for her dad. Tim picked her up, and, as if they were the only two people at the party, he began to twirl, spin, and dip his firstborn.

As she giggled and cried for more, Tim threw her up in the air and was no longer just a man dressed to the nines in his suit, but a daddy lost in the joy of the moment. I knew this time together was sacred, for it was pure innocent joy. The bright smile the sight brought to my face faded as I continued to watch their dance moves. My heart began to ache with a heaviness I’d never known before. Reality had set in, and the knowledge that I wouldn’t be there when she did this with her father on her wedding day made me cry.

In my 72 years, I’ve lived a vibrant life. I’ve known joy and love, but also pain, loss, and rejection. On top of it all, I was blessed with four incredible children, now adults, whom I treasure (and not just because they gave me seven grandchildren). But my mortality is slowly creeping in, and I’m constantly looking for ways to beat it. A line from the movie Stepmom helps to give me peace:

“You can take me with you.”

In the movie, Susan Sarandon has cancer and doesn’t have long to live. Her daughter comes into her room to receive a special handmade blanket with photos of their time together. Looking at the masterpiece, and with tears in her eyes, the child tells her mother how much she will miss her. Then Susan says to her, “But you can take me with you.”

What a freeing idea. Take me with you when you’re sad—I’ll be right there spiritually, holding your hand. Take me with you when you get married. I’ll be walking down the aisle with you. And when you have your own babies, take me there, too, so I can participate in the birth of new life and watch with joy as you become a parent.

When my mom passed away over twenty years ago, I vowed never to let her go. She had been my light for fifty years, and I had no idea how to live without her. When honoring someone’s life, first we cherish the memories. Then, perhaps, we do some things the way they did.

How I remember her laugh and infectious personality.  Family and friends were everything to her, and she always searched for the next giggle. So, when I’m with my tribe, I allow myself to laugh aloud, almost to the point of hysteria, not caring if my makeup runs down my face.

Mom also had a sweet way of saying, “Don’t forget, I love you with all my heart,” whenever we left the house or ended a phone conversation. Now, I say those words to my gang. They express a love that has no limit, no bounds, and is purely unconditional.

And as I wrestle on the floor or play dolls with my grandchildren, I’m reminded of how she would have loved to do the same. Her pain-riddled body never let her physically be the Grammie she always wanted to be, so when my physical limitations get in the way, I muster on, for I’ve promised to do it for both of us. And in these ways, she is always right here.

They say the soul never dies, and while I believe this, it’s never the same as having the person physically with me. I want to have long conversations over a glass of wine. I want to hold them when they’re sad and celebrate their life’s successes. This is when I feel life is so unfair, for I want them still here.

Suddenly, the music ended, and Jordan ran to me to jump on my lap. Taking in the moment, I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her, inhaling the sweet smell of her freshly washed hair and thought about all that was ahead of her.

“I wuv you, Grammie.” I heard the soft murmur against my chest. “Will you dance with me too?”

Closing my eyes, I suddenly felt the world’s weight lifted off my heart. There was a love here that had survived through the passage of time—a love that runs from one generation to the next no matter where any of us will be.

I’ve tried to make peace with the fact I may never see Jordan, or her cousins, get married. It’s hard. But rather than groan over the inevitable, I have the now. So, I’ll work on continuing to create memories during our time together. I refuse to let age get in the way of my rolling in the dirt, playing football (where they tackle me), and going to the trampoline park where they laugh hysterically because my bladder is no longer firm and leakage gets in the way of a back flip. It’ll be memories of watching their dance classes, doing art projects, and making elaborate hairbows so they’re the most fashionable kid at school. But my favorite will be our talks about life and who they someday want to be.

My goal going forward is to create a new closeness with all of them by being present with phone calls and letter writing and by visiting often, taking each child out for some one-on-one time with their Grammie. And don’t forget late-night cuddles when sleep eludes them.  In doing so, maybe, just maybe, I’ll give them what they’ll need to face the world as they grow—the memory of a legacy of love.

May 2025 be a year of sweet memories for all of us. May we be kind to everyone, laugh until our bellies hurt, and remember to love with all our hearts so our children and grandchildren always take us with them—now and forever.

---