Grief Glitter

What if grief isn't only about what we've lost?

What if it's also about what remains?

In this episode, Kim explores the idea of "grief glitter"—the pieces of people we continue finding long after they're gone. Through stories about her father, her father-in-law, family traditions, lifelong friendships, faith, and community, she reflects on the ways people leave their fingerprints on our lives.

Because sometimes the greatest gifts people leave behind aren't possessions.

They're the values, stories, traditions, faith, and love that continue shaping us long after they're gone.

Extended Show Notes

Have you ever noticed that glitter never really goes away?

You can clean it up. Vacuum it. Move houses. Throw things away. And somehow years later, another tiny piece shows up somewhere unexpected.

In this episode, Kim explores why grief can feel similar.

Not because grief is messy.

But because the people we love leave pieces of themselves behind.

Through stories about her father, Texas A&M Muster, family traditions, model homes, Christmas Eve brunches, lifelong friendships, and the people who helped carry her through difficult seasons, Kim reflects on the ways grief reveals not only what we've lost—but what remains.

This conversation explores:

• Why grief and gratitude often exist together

• The traditions and stories that continue after loss

• The influence people leave behind without realizing it

• How faith, family, friendship, and community shape us

• Why grief may be evidence that love mattered

• The legacy we are leaving behind for others

If you've ever lost someone you love, missed a familiar voice, held onto a meaningful tradition, or found yourself unexpectedly smiling through tears, this conversation is for you.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:17

Have you ever noticed that glitter never really goes away? You can vacuum it, sweep it, throw things away, move houses, and somehow, months or years later, you'll find another piece of it tucked into a corner somewhere. A tiny reminder that at some point it was there. I think grief is a little bit like that. Not because grief is messy, although sometimes it is, and not because grief is sparkly, although sometimes the memories can be, but because the people we love leave pieces of themselves behind in places we don't expect. A phrase, a habit, a story, a value, a laugh, a way of seeing the world. Something they taught us, something they modeled, something they believed. And years later, we suddenly realize we're carrying it too. When most people talk about grief, they talk about what was lost. And that's understandable. The loss hurts. It changes us. It leaves empty chairs and unanswered phone calls and moments when we instinctively reach for someone who's no longer there. But lately I've found myself thinking about the different side of grief. Not what people take with them when they leave, not but what they leave behind. Because the longer I live, the more I realize that the people who shape us never really disappear. Pieces of them remain. Sometimes in obvious ways, sometimes in ways we don't recognize until years later. And maybe that's why grief can sometimes feel so strange. Because the person is gone, but somehow they're still here too. Not physically, but in the things that they planted, the things they taught, the things that they loved, the things they passed on, like glitter. Tiny traces that keep showing up long after we thought we had reached the end of the story. My dad passed away in October of 2025. And like most people who lose someone they love, there are days that I miss him deeply. I miss the phone calls. Every phone call started the exact same way. Hey Kim, it's your dad. As if I wouldn't recognize his voice immediately, as if there was any possibility I would mistake who was calling. After he passed away, I learned that he did that with all of us. Every child, every call, the same introduction. And now when I think about him, I can hear it perfectly. Not just the words, the tone, the warmth, the familiarity, the comfort of knowing Dad was on the other end of the line. It's funny how grief works. Sometimes the things you miss the most aren't the big moments. They're the ordinary ones, the routines, the greetings, the things you never imagined would become memories. I miss the conversations. I miss hearing him tell stories that I've heard a hundred times before. I miss his wisdom. I miss his steady presence. I miss hearing him say I love you. I miss hearing him say I'm proud of you. I even miss the sound of the oxygen machines that become became part of everyday life during his final years. But as I walked away through this season, as I've walked through this season of grief, something unexpected has happened. I keep finding him, not physically, but in all the places where he left pieces of himself behind. The kind that quietly shaped every decision that he made, the kind that showed up in how he loved people, how he served people, and how he cared for his family. Looking back now, I think one of the greatest gifts that he left wasn't a lesson that he taught. It was the example that he lived. His faith mattered, his family mattered, and he lived like both were worth prior prioritizing. One of the phrases I hear in my head all the time is something he used to say. Simple but powerful. And the older I get, the more I realize how much of my own life has been shaped by those words. Because that's exactly how he lived. He loved, he supported, he showed up. And somehow those values became part of who I am too. Another phrase that still makes me smile happened at my high school graduation party. Dad told all of my friends to enjoy college and have fun. And then he looked at me and said, Work hard and apply yourself. Every now, I every now, even now, I can hear the chuckle that followed, that very dad-like grin, the combination of encouragement and expectation that said, I believe you can do this. And if I'm honest, that work ethic still follows me today. When I commit to something, I go all in. Not because someone's forcing me to, because that's what I saw modeled. If you're going to do something, do it well. And if you're going to show up, show up fully. That was dad. Dad wasn't serious all the time though. Some of my favorite memories were surprisingly ordinary. For as long as I can remember, Dad worked in the home building industry. So whenever I would visit him, we'd often end up driving through neighborhoods looking at houses. Sometimes we'd walk through model homes. Sometimes we'd talk about floor plans. Sometimes we'd just drive around and look. I loved model homes. In fact, when I was in high school, I had and admittedly a little bit of a brat, I knew that dad was the CFO of one of the larger home builders in Houston. Every now and then I would stop by a model home park, casually mention who my dad was, and somehow walk away with fresh baked cookies. At the time I thought I was pretty clever. Looking back now, I mostly laugh. That's another piece of glitter. A simple memory, a small story, one of those moments that immediately takes me back to him. And maybe one of those places I see his glitter most most clearly is in the traditions he loved. For the last several years of his life, I attended Texas AM Muster with him. If you're not familiar with Muster, it's a ceremony where Aggies gather to remember those who have passed away in the year previous. When a name is called, someone stands and answers here. It's a way of honoring the lives that came before us. And what always amazed me was that dad would stand for people he didn't even know. Classmates of classmates, people whose families needed someone to answer, people who deserved to be remembered. He understood that something that feels rare today. He understood that honoring people matters. Remembering people matters. Showing up matters. In fact, the year before Dad passed away, he wasn't even able to stand on his own. His pulmonary fibrosis had progressed significantly. He needed oxygen. And one of his friends pushed him through muster in a wheelchair. And yet, when the time came to answer for someone whose name had been called, Dad still participated. Not because it was easy, not because he felt strong, because honoring people mattered to him. Even then, even in that season, looking back, now I think that's one of the clearest pictures of who he was. A man who kept showing up, a man who believed that people should be remembered, a man who understood that some things are worth the effort, even when the effort becomes difficult. And maybe that's why standing for him this year felt so meaningful. Because for years I watched him stand for others. Then one day it became our turn our turn to stand for him. And this year my sister Gabby and I stood and answered for him. Sharing that moment with her felt like another gift Dad left behind. We lit the candle, we honored his memory, and I don't know that I'll ever fully have words for what that moment meant. It was heartbreaking and beautiful and sacred and all at the same time. It was one of the greatest honors of my life to be his daughter and to help carry forward the legacy that he left behind. A few months ago, while cleaning out things from his house, we found something that made all of us laugh. We discovered the original case for his bronze star. The sorry, the medal itself had been displayed in a shadow box in his office for years. But inside the empty presentation box was a note. The note simply explained the medal is in the shadow box. And every one of us burst out laughing. Because of course he left a note. Of course he did. Later, we found three shell casings from his days in the Ross Volunteers at Texas AM. One of those was from Muster in 1968, and the other two were from Silver Taps ceremonies while he was on campus. And once again, there was a note explaining where they came from, why they mattered, and explaining the story behind the object. Because Dad understood something important. The objects aren't what matter. The stories matter. The context matters. The people matter. And now those shell casings sit with me. Not because they're valuable, because they're connected to him. They're glitter. Tiny pieces of a life that can will continue telling a story. And maybe that's why grief feels so strange. Because I can miss my dad deeply and still find him everywhere. In the values he taught, in the traditions that he loved, in the stories he left behind, in the faith that he modeled, in the way that our family loves one another, the phone calls may be gone, but the things he planted remain. And maybe that's one of the greatest gifts people leave behind, not possessions, not accomplishments, not even the memories. They leave pieces of themselves in the people that they loved. And those pieces keep showing up long after they're gone. The more I've thought about this idea, the more I've realized something else. Not everyone leaves the same kind of glitter. Not everyone shapes us in the same way. And that's probably a good thing, because if all the people who influence us were exactly alike, we'd miss so much of what God is trying to teach us through them. My dad and my father-in-law Jimmy were about as different as two people could be. Dad was steady, quiet, even tempered. You almost never heard him raise his voice. He was thoughtful, measured, and consistent. Jimmy, on the other hand, was larger than life, loud, funny, passionate, the kind of person whose presence filled a room before he ever even said a word. If Dad was a calm lake, Jimmy was a firework show, and I loved them both dearly. Jimmy had a deep voice that I can still hear in my head. He was the only person in my life who was allowed to call me Kimberly. Not Kim, not Kimmy, always Kimberly in that deep, slow voice of his. And somehow the way he said it always made me smile. He was the kind of man who teased you relentlessly if he loved you. In fact, the more he teased you, the more likely it was that you were one of his favorite people. And while Dad taught me about steady faithfulness, Jimmy taught me about something different. He taught me what devotion looks like, especially through his relationship with John's mom, Betty. They had been married for 60 years. Sixty years. And they were still very much in love. Not perfect, not pretending, just deeply devoted to one another. The kind of love that had been tested by life and strengthened by it. What made their marriage even more significant to me is that I had never really seen anything like that before. My parents divorced when I was young. John's family hadn't experienced divorce until much later. My maternal grandparents probably would have been married that long too, but my grandfather passed away about a year before my parents divorced, and he was pretty young. So by the time I met Jimmy and Betty, I had never really witnessed a marriage that had lasted a lifetime. I had never watched two people grow old together. I had never seen what 60 years of choosing one another looked like. And that's one of the gifts they gave me without ever realizing it. They gave me a picture, a living example of commitment. Not perfect people, not a perfect marriage, just two people who continued showing up for one another year after year. The older I get, the more grateful I am to have had a front front row seat to that. Because when you grow up seeing something, it's easy to when you don't grow up seeing something, it's easy to wonder if that's even possible. And Jimmy and Betty showed me that it was. And maybe that's why I see their influence so clearly now. I can still see pieces of Jimmy in John today. When John starts planning a project, when he figures out how to fix something, when he takes care of our family, when he quietly shows up and does what needs to be done, I can see Jimmy. Because that's another thing that grief teaches us. Sometimes the people we lose are still standing right in front of us. Not because they're physically here, because their influence continues through the people that they shaped. Jimmy and John were best friends. There wasn't much they couldn't build together. If John had an idea for something around the house, they'd spend hours talking through it, planning it, thinking it through, working side by side. In fact, when John was a little tiny boy, they built their garage at their at Jim and Betty's house. And when Jimmy passed away after five difficult weeks in the hospital during COVID, one of the things that hurt most was knowing that so many of those conversations had come to an end, or at least it felt that way. But over time I've realized they didn't fully end because Jimmy's influence didn't end. His values didn't end, his love didn't end. They continue in the people that he invested in. One of my favorite Jimmy stories is Thanksgiving. Every single year, the exact same menu. No changes, no substitutions, no experiments, no updates. The menu was established. The menu was sacred. And apparently Thanksgiving planning needed to be done or begin sometime around August. Because heaven forbid we not secure the ingredients in time. At the time we laughed about it. Now we laugh about it even more because one of the things that seemed ordinary it seemed ordinary when it was happening, and priceless once it wasn't. And the truth is Jimmy's influence didn't stop when he passed away. Every Thanksgiving I still think about the blessing he would pray before the meal. Every Christmas Eve when we gather for brunch at the house, I can almost see him standing in the kitchen making bacon while singing Christmas carols along with the television. Somehow I can hear his voice as clearly as ever. The traditions continue. The people around the table continue, the stories continue, and in many ways so does he, not physically, but through the things that he started. Through the moments he created, through the memories that still bring us together, and maybe that's another form of grief glitter. The traditions that continue long after the person who started them is gone. Isn't that how many so many memories work? The things we think we'll remember forever aren't always the same things that stay with us. Sometimes it's the little things, the phrases, the habits, the traditions, the quirks, the things that made someone uniquely themselves, the glitter. And some of that's one of the things that grief has taught me. The people who shape us don't all leave the same kinds of gifts behind. Some leave faith, some leave wisdom, some leave laughter, some leave courage, some leave devotion, some leave stories, some leave traditions, and some leave examples worth following. And all of those gifts become part of the people we are becoming. And maybe that's why grief can feel so complicated, because we're not simply mourning what we've lost, we're also recognizing what we've gained. We're recognizing how much of who we are today was shaped by the people who loved us before we even understand what understood what they were giving us. And sometimes the greatest gift we can give them in return is to carry those gifts forward, to love the way they loved, to serve the way they served, to believe the things they believed, to continue the story they helped to write, because that's how glitter works. It spreads. And the best parts of people of the people we love often continue long after they're gone. Some days grief looks like tears. Some days it looks like laughter. Most days, if I'm honest, it looks a little bit like both. Because one moment I'll find myself smiling in a memory, and the next moment I'll realize I would give almost anything to hear that person's voice one more time. I think that's part of what makes grief so complicated. The love and loss often sit in the same place. The more I've reflected on this, the more I realize that some people leave gifts long before we recognize them as gifts. And at that time, they look like ordinary moments, ordinary conversations, ordinary examples, ordinary acts of faithfulness. And then years later, we realized those moments were shaping us all along. When I think about Lynn, I think about grace under pressure. A few weeks after we returned from a family trip in Bandera, my younger brother was diagnosed with leukemia. What followed was a long, difficult season of doctor's appointments, treatments, uncertainty, the kind of season that asks more from a family than anyone wants to give. And through all of it, Lynn stayed steady. She showed up, she loved him, she supported him, she carried burdens that many people never saw. And then, just as that chapter was beginning to settle, Dad's health started declining. For well over a year she cared for him with extraordinary grace, not because it was easy, not because she always had the answers, but because that's what love does. Love stays, love serves, love continues showing up. And when I look back at it now, I realize that she left glitter too. Not the kind that comes through words, the kind that comes through example. She showed me what faithfulness looks like when life becomes difficult. She showed me what loving someone through a hard season looks like. She showed me grace under pressure, and that's a gift I'll carry long after this season is over. I see the same thing when I look at my siblings. That's what's interesting about our family is that we didn't all grow up together in the way that many siblings do. My older sisters and I had to build those relationships as adults, and my younger siblings are 25 years younger than I am, so we don't share the same childhood memories. We don't share the same experiences of growing up under one roof. What we but we do share something else. We share our dad. And maybe that's one of the reasons those relationships feel so meaningful, because every one of us carries a piece of his legacy. When I look at my siblings, their spouses, and my nieces and nephew, I see evidence of values he spent a lifetime investing in faith, family, commitment, loyalty, showing up for people, loving well, and it reminds me that legacy isn't something you leave behind when you're gone. Legacy is something that continues through the people who carry it forward. I think that's true of our friendships too. When I think about my my best friend Debbie, one of the first words that comes to mind is steadfast. She's the kind of friend who shows up, not just when life is easy, when life is hard. When Jimmy passed away, she spent time with James during the visitation. She even walked him up to the casket so he could see his grandfather. She had never met Jimmy, but she understood what mattered wasn't whether she knew him or what mattered was that we did. And that's just who she is. When Dad passed away, she showed up again. The viewing, the support, the encouragement, the willingness to step into difficult moments and helped carry them. But the truth is, what I carry from Debbie isn't just gratitude, it's an example. She's shown me what faithful friendship looks like. The kind of friendship that doesn't disappear when life becomes inconvenient. The kind that stays, the kind that carries, the kind that reminds you you're not alone. And maybe that's another form of glitter. Not a phrase, not a tradition, not a story, an example. The example of someone who teaches you how to love people better is simply the way by the way that they love you. And I think all of us have people like that. People whose influence has become part of who we are, people whose values have shaped us, people whose whose examples have challenged us, people who quietly deposited gifts into our lives long before we realized what they were doing. Which is why I think grief and gratitude are often closer together than we realize. Because the deeper the gratitude, the greater the gift, and the greater the gift, the more likely we are to find pieces of it still showing up years later. As I've thought about all of this, I've realized something else. Some people leave glitter, and some people help you find it. Because if you've ever walked through deep grief, you know there are days when you can all you can see is loss. The empty chair, the unanswered phone call, the holidays that feel different, the conversation you wish you could have one more time, the person you miss. And in those moments, one of the greatest gifts someone can offer is simply to sit beside you and remind you that the story didn't end with loss. That love is still the love is still there, that the memories are still there, that the gifts they left behind are still there. I think that's one of the reasons I'm so grateful for the people that God has placed in our lives. Because over the last several years, we've had some difficult chapters. My brother's leukemia, Jimmy's passing, dad's declining health, dad's passing, the countless moments in between that never make it into the big stories, but still require people to show up and help carry the weight. And one of those people who has done that again and again is Rachel. Rachel and Mike have become incredibly important people in our lives. The kind of friends who don't just celebrate the victories, they walk through the valleys too. When dad's health was declining, Rachel checked in. When things became difficult, Rachel checked in. When Dad passed away, Rachel immediately started looking for ways to help. At one point, she even offered to go shopping to find clothes or shoes for the funeral. Now that might sound like a small thing, but if you've ever planned a funeral for someone you deeply love, you know suddenly that simple decisions can start to feel overwhelming. Grief has a way of making ordinary tasks unexpectedly heavy. And sometimes what matters most isn't the task itself. It's knowing someone is standing beside you willing to help you carry it. Rachel and Mike showed up at the viewing, they showed up at the funeral, they showed up before, they showed up after, and that's one of the things that I've learned about grief. You don't always remember exactly what people said, but you remember who showed up. You remember who called, who texted, who prayed, who quietly sat beside you, who helped carry that what felt too heavy to carry alone. The same thing is true of Debbie. Some friendships become family over time, and Debbie is one of those people for me. She's walked beside our family through many significant moments that it's hard to imagine her the story without her in it. When Jimmy passed away, she showed up. When Dad passed away, she showed up. When life became difficult, she showed up again and again and again. And maybe that's one of the most beautiful forms of love consistency, faithfulness, the willingness to remain present when there isn't an easy fix. Because grief doesn't need people to solve it, it needs people willing to sit with you in it. And as I think about the people who have helped me find the glitter, I can't talk about that without talking about our church family. For years, church felt complicated. For years, finding a place that truly felt like home seemed uncertain. And then God brought us to region. And over time, that what started as a church became family. Not perfect people, not people who always get everything right, just people who genuinely love one another, people who celebrate together, who grieve together, who carry burdens together, people who show up. When dad passed away, they showed up. Rachel and Mike, Kevin and Patricia, Andy and Gail, Janice, Quincy and Lacey, Brian and Nicole, Kay, Craig, so many others. They came to the services, they sent messages, they prayed, they encouraged. Some simply reminded us that we weren't walking through this alone. And those things matter more than we sometimes realize. I still have gifts that remind me of those moments. A small gift from Gail with the word courage, a small gift from Rachel with the word enough, a star ornament from Janice reminding me that I'm becoming their star. They're small things and simple things, but every one of them carries a story. Every one of them reminds me of a person, and everyone reminds me that grief was never something I had to carry by myself. And maybe that's one of the most beautiful things God does through community. Sometimes He sends people to leave glitter, and sometimes He sends people to help you see it. And to point us back towards love, to point us back toward the memories, to point us back towards the gifts that remain. Because when grief is at its heaviest, it can be difficult to see anything beyond what we've lost. And sometimes God places people beside us to gently remind us of what still remains. I think one of the things that surprised me most about grief is that it reveals things you couldn't see before. Not because those things weren't there, because life was moving too fast to notice them. When someone you love dies, everything slows down for a while. You find yourself looking backward, relaying or replaying conversations, remembering stories, sorting through boxes, finding photographs, holding on to objects that probably didn't mean much to anyone else. And somewhere in that process you start seeing things differently. You begin to realize what mattered most, you begin to realize what shaped you, you begin to realize what remains. For a long time I thought grief was mostly about loss. And certainly loss is a part of it. There are still moments when I reach for the phone and think about calling dad. There are still moments when I hear something funny and immediately think, Dad would love this. There are still moments when when I wish I could ask his advice, still moments when I wish I could tell him something that was happening in our lives, still moments when I miss him so deeply that it catches me off guard. But what I've discovered is that grief isn't only about what is missing, it's also about becoming aware of what remains. The faith remains, the values remain, the stories remain, the traditions and the love remain. And maybe that's why grief feels so complicated, because some days it brings tears and some days it brings smiles, and sometimes it brings both at exactly the same time. I found myself laughing at stories and crying halfway through telling them. I found myself smiling while looking at old photographs and then suddenly feeling the weight of the missing person within them. And I think that's normal because grief isn't proof that we are failing to move forward. It's proof that love mattered. The deeper the love, the deeper the loss. But the deeper the love, the greater the gift that remains. One of the those things that has helped me appreciate more is the generation that dad and Jimmy belong to. There was about a 10-year age difference between them. Jimmy served in Korea and Dad in Vietnam. They were very different men with different personalities and different life experiences. And yet they shared many of the same values. One of the things I admired most was the way that they maintained friendships through their lives. These were friendships that lasted decades, not through social media, not through text message, not through email, through effort, through phone calls, through visits, through showing up. I've often thought about how remarkable that is. Because we live in a world where staying connected has never been easier. And yet meaningful connection sometimes feels harder than ever. They belong to a generation that understood something important. Relationships don't survive because they're convenient. They survive because they're valued. And maybe that's another piece of glitter that they left behind. A reminder that the people who matter are worth staying connected to. One of the things that grief has revealed to me is how much influence people have on our lives without us realizing it. There are phrases I say now that came from dad, values I carry that came from dad, ways of loving people that came from dad, and there are things that I see in John that came from Jimmy. There are examples of faithfulness that I've learned from Lynn, examples of friendship I've learned from Debbie, examples of courage, generosity, encouragement, and community that I've learned from the people God has placed around me. And most of those lessons weren't taught in a classroom. They were taught through observation, through example, and through ordinary life, which means that some of the most important things people leave behind are the things they never realized they were teaching. I think that's one of the reasons grief can become a powerful teacher. Because it helps us to see what truly mattered. Not titles, not achievements, not accomplishments, not possessions, but character, faith, love, relationships, presence, things that actually outlive us. And maybe that's why some of the smallest things can become so emotional after someone is gone. A handwritten note, a familiar phrase, a favorite recipe, a Christmas ornament, a photograph, a voicemail, an old text message, a sound and even a smell. Something completely ordinary that suddenly becomes priceless. I never expected to miss the sound of dad's oxygen machine. If you've ever lived with medical equipment in your home, you know it eventually becomes the background noise. You stop noticing it. It's part of the environment, part of everyday life. And yet after he was gone, there were moments where I found myself missing that sound. Not because I loved the machine, but because the machine meant dad was there. It meant he was sitting in his office, reading, watching a game, watching a movie, talking to family, living life. And somehow that ordinary sound became connected to comfort, connected to presence, connected to home. And grief has a way of teaching you that what you miss is rarely the object itself. It's the person attached to it. I think that's why grief has made me more grateful. Not because losing someone is easy, not because I would ever choose it, but because it has helped me to see the gifts they leave behind more clearly. The faith, the traditions, the stories, the examples, the love, and the glitter. Sometimes I find myself wondering if what dad would think about this podcast. And honestly, I think he would have loved it. When I published my book years ago, he wasn't just supportive, he was enthusiastic. The kind of person who bought 10 copies and told other people about it. The kind of person who believed in you before you fully believed in yourself. I often joke that he would have been this podcast's biggest fan. But the truth is I think it's probably true, and true for Jimmy too. Sometimes I think one of the reasons I've had courage to build things like this is because I spent a lifetime being believed in by dad, by Jimmy, by people who see things in me before I can fully see them myself. And maybe that's another form of glitter. The confidence someone leaves behind, the belief they place in you, the encouragement that continues pushing you forward long after they're gone. Because even now there are moments when I take a step into something new and I can almost hear him saying, work hard and apply yourself. I've got a feeling he would have liked what we're building here. And maybe that's what grief reveals more than anything else. Not simply that someone is gone, but that someone was here and that they mattered, that they shaped us, that they changed us, and that their story continues to live in the lives that they touched. Maybe grief isn't proof that one that love ended. Maybe grief is proof that love mattered. And as I've reflected on all this, I've realized that grief eventually leads to a different question, a harder question, a more personal question. Not what did they leave behind, but what am I leaving behind? Because if the people we love leave pieces of themselves and us, then someday we'll leave pieces of ourselves and others too. And if I'm honest, that's a thought that has made me pay more attention in a different way, not out of fear and not out of pressure, but out of purpose. Because one day my boys will tell stories about us. One day they'll remember things I don't even realize that they're noticing right now. One day they'll repeat phrases they've heard a hundred times. One day they'll carry traditions that feel ordinary to us today. One day they'll tell stories about family trips, dinner conversations, about things we laughed about, things we believed, things we prioritized. And the truth is, I don't know which stories they'll tell. I don't know which moments they'll remember. I don't know which lessons will stay with them. Most of us don't. That's part of the mystery of influence. The things that we think are the biggest moments often aren't. And the moments we barely notice sometimes become the ones people carry forever. I think about my dad's note in the bronze star box. I don't think about I don't think that he left that note expecting it to become one of our favorite stories. I think he left it because that's what made sense to him. The note wasn't for history, the note was practical. But now every time we tell the story, we will laugh because it's so completely him. And I think about Jimmy's Thanksgiving menu. The same menu every year, the same planning process every year, the same traditions. At the same at this at the time it felt ordinary. Now it feels priceless. In fact, we still have a picture of that menu. And I recently found myself thinking I should have it engraved onto a cutting board to hang in the kitchen. Not because it's a recipe, not because the menu itself is extraordinary, but because every time we look at it, we'll hear his voice. We will remember the teasing, the laughter, we'll remember the family gathered around the table. We'll remember the man who cared enough to make sure that all of it happened. Because that's the thing about grief glitter. The object isn't what matters. It's the person you find when you see it. And every time we look at that menu, we will remember Jimmy. And it makes me wonder how many things we're doing right now that seem completely ordinary, but will someday become part of someone else's story. The meals, the conversations, the traditions, the encouragement, the prayers, the rides that we give to people, the family vacations, the late night talks, the way we respond when life gets hard, the way we celebrate when life gets good. All of it leaves something behind. And maybe that's both humbling and beautiful. Because most of us won't leave behind monuments. Most of us won't leave behind buildings with our names on them. Most of us won't leave behind history books written about our lives, but we will leave behind something far more personal. We'll leave behind ourselves. We'll leave behind the things that we've invested in other people, the love we've given, the encouragement that we've spoken, the faith we've modeled, the values we've lived, the example that we've set. And that's the kind of legacy that lasts. I think about my dad. One of the things that brings me comfort is knowing that the pieces of him that still exist all around me in our family, our traditions, our stories, the values he passed down, the way we love each other, and the way we continue showing up for one another. And the same is true for Jimmy. The same is true for so many people who have shaved shaped my life. Their stories didn't end when their lives ended. Their influence continues. And maybe that's one of the reasons I find so much hope in this idea. Because the people we love don't simply disappear. Their fingerprints remain, their influence remain, their gifts remain, and their glitter remains. And perhaps that's what legacy really is, not being remembered by everyone, but being carried forward by someone. Maybe it's a son who builds things the way his father taught him. Maybe it's a daughter who values faith because she watched it lived out every day. Maybe it's a friend who learns how to show up because someone once showed up for them. Maybe it's a church family that continues loving people because someone modeled what that looked like. Maybe it's a child who grows up hearing stories and eventually realizes they're carrying pieces of generations they never fully knew. The truth is we rarely get to choose exactly what people remember about us. But we do get to choose how we live. We get to choose how we love and we get to choose what we invest in. And every day, whether we realize it or not, we're leaving glitter behind. The question is, what kind of glitter are we leaving? When our children tell stories about us one day, what will they remember? When our friends talk about us years from now, what will come to mind? When people describe the influence we had on their lives, what will they say? Will they remember the kindness, faithfulness, encouragement, generosity, integrity? Will they remember someone who showed up, someone who loved well, someone who pointed them back towards Christ, someone who made them feel seen, someone who made them feel valued? I hope so, not because I want to be remembered, but because I want the people around me to carry something good forward, the same way so many people have done for me, because that's what grief glitter has taught me. The people we love never leave empty handed. They leave pieces of themselves behind in us, and if we're paying attention, we'll spend the rest of our lives discovering those gifts in unexpected places. A phrase, a tradition, a recipe, a note, a story, a value, a laugh, a voice we still hear in our heads, and tiny reminders that they were here, tiny reminders that they mattered, tiny reminders that the love leaves a mark, like litter, and no matter how much time passes, you keep finding it. And as I think about all this, I keep coming back to one simple truth. The people we love leave pieces of themselves behind. Not because they plan to, not because they were trying to build legacy, simply because that's what love does. Love leaves fingerprints, it leaves traces, it leaves evidence, it leaves glitter, and the older I get, the more grateful I am for it. Because grief has taught me that the things that we miss most often are the things that we once took for granted. A familiar voice, a favorite phrase, a family tradition, a phone call, a laugh, a story we've heard a hundred times. The ordinary things that quietly become extraordinary once they're gone. There are still days when I miss my dad deeply, days when I wish that he was on the other end of the phone, days I wish I could tell him about something that's going on right now. Days I wish I could hear his thoughts, his wisdom, or his perspective on something. There are still days when I miss Jimmy too, days when I think about a holiday gathering, a family project, or a conversation, and wish he were sitting at the table with us. And maybe that's part of what grief is, not forgetting, not moving on, not pretending the loss didn't happen. It's learning how to carry both things at the same time. The sadness of missing them and the gratitude of having loved them and been loved by them. The ache of loss, the joy of remembrance, the tears and the smiles. Because the truth is, I don't think healing means loving someone less. I think healing means learning how to carry that love differently, learning how to recognize the places where it still exists, learning how to see the ways their influence continue, learning how to notice the glitter. And when I stop and look around, I realize that it's everywhere in the values they taught, the stories we tell, the traditions we continue, the people they've shaped, the faith they've passed down, and the love they've modeled, and the ways they taught us to show up for one another. It's there in my family, it's there in friendships, it's there in our church family, it's here in my marriage, and it's here in my children. And maybe that's why grief and gratitude often feel so closely connected, because every piece of glitter points back to a gift, a gift that was given through a life, a gift that was given through a relationship, and a gift that still remains. So maybe grief isn't proof that love ended, maybe grief is Evidence that love mattered. Maybe the tears are evidence that someone changed us. And the stories are evidence that someone shaped us. And maybe the traditions are evidence that someone was here. And maybe every piece of glitter we find is a reminder that while a person's life may have ended, their influence didn't. It continues in the people they loved, the people they sh they shaped, and the people who carry forward their stories. And that if that's true, then perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give the people we've lost is to continue living the things that they taught us. To love well, to show up, to encourage, to believe, to serve, to keep carrying forward the best parts of what they left behind. Because the people we love never really leave empty-handed. They leave pieces of themselves behind in us. And if we're paying attention, we'll spend the rest of our lives discovering them, just like the glitter. The tiny remembers reminders that they were here, the tiny reminders that they mattered, the tiny reminders that love leaves a mark. If today's conversation resonated with you, you may find these conversations helpful as well. Episode 28: Some people share a season, some share a life, a conversation about the relationships that shape, support, and sustain us through different seasons of life. Episode 23, when belonging shaped who you became. Explore how community, acceptance, and connection influence the way we see ourselves and the lives that we build. Episode 24, Childhood Shapes the Way You See Yourself, a look at the experiences and relationships that helped form your earliest understanding of yourself and the world around you. And episode 29, The Diagnosis Didn't Change Me, an exploration of identity, labels, and why no single chapter gets to become the title of your story. And there are also resources connected to these: the things they left behind, a companion guide about this episode, a reflective companion designed to help you explore the people who shaped your life, the values they passed on, the stories you still carry, and the legacy that continues through you today. Through guided reflection, you'll identify the grief glitter that you've discovered over the years, the traditions, the phrases, the examples, memories, and gifts that remain long after a season has ended. Who helps carry your life to reflect on the people God has used to support, encourage, and sustain you throughout different seasons of life. One thing that is new is that each episode is now on its own conversation page on the website. If you visit healerhopgiver.com and click on the podcast page, you'll find links to the current conversations. From there, each episode has its own page where you'll find the audio episode, the YouTube version, related conversations, companion resources, and additional ways to continue exploring the themes that resonate with you most. And if you're brand new to our space, you'll find the Start Here page designed to help you find a few gentle starting points based on where you are right now. You can also explore relate episodes by topic and theme, including a section on identity and belonging, voice and communication, faith and endurance, health and stewardship, and grief and hope. My hope is that these collections make it easier to follow the conversations that connect mostly or most closely to your own journey. Whether you're looking for a specific episode, a companion resource, or simply a place to begin, I hope you'll discover reminders that you're not walking this journey alone. Hey friends, thank you for spending part of your day with me. As I've worked on this episode, I found myself thinking about something I heard years ago. People often say that grief gets smaller with time. I'm not sure that's exactly true. I think what happens is that our lives grow around it. The love remains, the memory remains, the influence remains, and over time we learn how to carry it all together. The sadness, the gratitude, the tears, the laughter, the loss, and of course the love. Because if there's one thing this season has taught me, it's that the people who matter most rarely stop influencing us when they're gone. They continue showing up in unexpected places, in phrases we hear in our heads, traditions we carry forward, the values we pass on, and in stories we continue to tell and in the way we love the people around us. And sometimes when we're paying attention, we discover that the people we miss most are still shaping us today. Not because they're physically here, but because they left something behind in us. If this episode brought someone to mind, I hope you'll do something with that this week. Call them, text them, sit down and share a meal with them. Tell them what they've meant to you, tell them what they've taught you. Tell them what you've carried forward because of them. And if the person you're thinking about is no longer here, maybe take a few minutes and sit with their memory, tell one of their stories, pull out an old photograph, share a favorite tradition, remember something that still makes you smile. Because sometimes the greatest gift we can give the people who shaped us is simply to remember them well. Share a memory, pass along a tradition, talk about the things that they loved. Because every time we do that, we keep a small piece of their story moving forward. And if this conversation encouraged you, I'd love for you to share it with someone who may need it today. Someone who's grieving, someone who's remembering, someone who needs a reminder that love leaves a mark. And if you haven't already, I'd love for you to follow the podcast wherever you listen. Whether it's Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, iHeartRadio, or your favorite podcast app, following the show helps more people discover these conversations and become part of our growing community. As always, thank you so much for being here. Thank you for listening. Thank you for allowing this space to be one where healing, faith, and honest conversations can coexist together. I'll meet you back here on Thursday for our devotional episode. Until then, keep practicing healing, keep holding on to hope. And remember the people we love never leave empty-handed. They leave pieces of themselves behind in us like glitter. I'll see you on Thursday.