By Kathy Wetsell 
It has been two months and nine days since my mom passed away. The first several weeks were spent on the details and logistics of planning her service. She passed in December, so once her beautiful service had passed, I busied myself with the preparations for Christmas. By mid-February, I finally began to process some feelings of grief on a deeper level.
The quiet of this less-busy season is allowing the grief to soak in a bit more. Not the big things; not the obvious, grief-heavy reminders that stop me in my tracks. Instead, I’ve been noticing the small things. The quiet things. The things I do without even thinking…until I suddenly realize why I’m doing them.
Like gift wrapping.
My daughter’s birthday is coming up, and I’m wrapping her presents—carefully. Tissue paper, ribbon, tape placed just right, the corners pressed as neatly as possible. And it hits me: I could absolutely put these in a gift sack. It would be faster, easier, and yet still thoughtful.
But I don’t. Because my mom didn’t.
My mom wrapped gifts like they mattered—because people mattered. And the wrapping was never really about paper or bows. It was about love. It was about making someone feel special before they even opened what was inside.
And now, years later, I’m standing in my kitchen doing the same thing. I do this not because I have to, but because it’s what I witnessed from my sweet mom and what I was taught.
When someone we love passes away, we expect grief to show up in tears.
Sometimes it does.
But sometimes grief shows up in the ways you honor your loved one. It is in the way you make a recipe you’ve made a hundred times, the recipe she always made.
In the way you set the table with seasonal decorations, cloth napkins, and napkin rings, because that is how Mom always did it. She was telling us we were special by making the table special.
In the way you write a thank-you note when a text would be enough.
In the way you still show up for people, even when you’re tired.
Because someone showed up for you.
I’ve realized something lately: The legacy our mothers leave isn’t only in the big lessons they gave us. It’s in the ways they loved us.
The gentleness.
The consistency.
The quiet ways they made life feel safe and warm.
And somehow…those things don’t disappear when they’re gone.
They live on.
They live on in us.
There’s a comfort I’ve been holding onto lately: God knew grief would be part of our story.
He knew we would lose people we love.
He knew there would be empty spaces and hard days and moments where the ache comes out of nowhere.
And in His kindness, He didn’t only give us memories.
He gave us inheritance.
Not money or possessions.
But the kind of inheritance that shows up in the way we live.
The way we care.
Scripture says that every good and perfect gift is from above, and that most certainly includes the gift of being loved well and being taught how to love well.
And my mom lives on in me.
I see her when I’m wrapping birthday gifts. I see her when I’m trying to make an ordinary day feel a little more special. In those moments, I do feel sadness that she isn’t there for me to call and tell her how I made the packages pretty, just like she did. But I also feel joy in the realization that she is never really gone because she left a legacy that continues to live in me.
And I’m starting to understand this is a gift of compassion from our loving Father in Heaven.
This is one of the ways He redeems loss.
Not by pretending it doesn’t hurt, but by allowing what was good to continue bearing fruit.
My mom’s love didn’t end when she passed. Because love—real love—doesn’t come from us in the first place.
It comes from God.
And I believe that the love she gave me was one of the ways God cared for me through her. Now, in ways I didn’t expect, I get to pass it on.
To my daughters.
To the people around me.
To anyone who needs a little warmth in a world that can feel so cold.
I’m learning so much in this season. I am learning I am stronger than I thought I was. I am learning love doesn’t end, it just changes form. Now my mom’s love shows up through me. In my hands, in my choices, in the way I mother, in the way I care for those around me, like she did so well.
Even in the way I wrap the gifts.
I miss you, Mom. Your love is still here, and by God’s grace, I intend to keep passing it on.
It’s her legacy, and one day it will be mine.
by Megan Hanlon 
by Alicia Searl 
