Legacy Lives in Me: The Women Who Prayed Me Through

I think of the women before me—

the ones who laid on the altar,

who didn’t just pray…

they wrestled in prayer.

They believed in what they spoke,

believed that God was listening.

And He was.

And He still is.

Prayer didn’t start at bedtime.

It started early—before the house woke up.

And it didn’t end until the day was done—

after the dishes were washed,

after everyone was fed,

after silence settled in.

Prayer was never performance.

It was relationship.

It was pulling up an empty chair

and talking to God like a friend—

saying everything,

even the things you didn’t know how to say.

Yes, He already knows the beginning and the end…

But sometimes, as humans,

we need to hear it in our own voice

to believe that it’s going to be okay.

And that’s what this reminds me of.

That my family is going to be okay.

It’s memories like these

that keep hope alive.

I remember my grandmother—

her strength, her certainty.

She had cancer.

But she said it firmly, without hesitation:

“Cancer will not take me.”

She had already had that conversation with God.

And when she spoke it,

it wasn’t fear talking—

it was faith.

Her belief was unwavering.

And she was right.

That kind of faith doesn’t disappear.

It doesn’t end with one generation.

It lives on.

It lives in me.

And now, when I look at my mother,

I speak with that same reverence—

that same knowing:

Dementia will not be her ending.

This may be a chapter.

It may be a journey.

But it is not the conclusion.

Because I come from women

who knew how to pray,

who knew how to believe,

who knew how to stand

when everything around them said otherwise.

So I will do the same.

I will believe.

I will speak.

I will stand.

Because legacy is not just what was left behind—

It’s what continues to rise through me.