If we live a life of intention and purpose, our contributions to this world won’t perish when we pass. And that is not only the goal, the ultimate pursuit, but additionally, the motivation to live a life with character others want to replicate, faith our children want to claim as their own, and traditions that feel miraculous and meaningful instead of obligation.
I always thought of inheritance as something tangible: a house, a beloved piece of jewelry, a cookbook with handwritten notes tucked inside. But after eulogizing the greatest woman I’ve ever known, my mother, a woman who barely had time to accumulate grey hair and wrinkles, I realized that the most valuable and significant things we inherit cannot be placed in a box or grasped between our fingers. Some inheritance is invisible, for it lives not in possessions, but in the actions, qualities, and influence of those who have loved us, especially the ones no longer here.
Death taught me that invisible inheritance is often the most sacred.
I always thought of legacy as a responsibility rather than a cherished gift. Like something else to feel the weight of when someone you love dies, similar to funeral planning and estates to settle, similar to closing accounts or updating emergency contacts- necessary but not desired. Living with grief and loss changed this perspective too. Legacy isn’t confined to the things we leave behind. Legacy is also all the things we carry forward delicately combined with all we give away graciously each day to those we know and love, things we do both consciously with effort and subconsciously in routine.
Legacies are symbolic, not because they merely look back and reminiscence, but because they are fluid, constantly moving between all that came before and all that will come after. An offering that grows as it continues to be passed down, an opportunity to both honor its craft while also constructing something unique.
I used to think that my mother’s story finished at her time of death. I was under the impression that her story could be told and remembered but no longer added to. But life, and grief, and love showcased that my life is another chapter in her book, another piece of her story, another extension of her legacy. And that’s just the beginning. I’m merely one life of what are surely dozens that she’s touched and encouraged.
Death doesn’t end a story. It doesn’t end influence or love; it simply shapes things differently and creates space between physical presence and the presence of their imprint.
I can think of no greater offering, no bolder example of our most meaningful contributions, than our legacies and our invisible inheritances. Proverbs 13:22 solidifies this call.
Proverbs 13:22 (NIV)
A good person leaves an inheritance for their children’s children…
Right now, we are all carrying invisible pieces of our heritage, while sprinkling pieces of our own legacy and inheritance into the spaces we visit and the faces we meet. This isn’t a superficial offering. It isn’t fleeting. It is an intentional stewardship and one we so often forget is happening. We get focused on the daily to-dos and forget how much our daily character is just as important.
When your children, or family, or friends inherit the outcomes of your life, will they be proud to walk with your truest qualities and characteristics enough to make them theirs too? Will they be encouraged enough by your faith to adopt it as their own? Will they be inspired by the way you loved and the ways you made people feel seen? Will you be remembered for who you were or for who they wished you could be?
We want to be remembered for how well we loved; how much our hearts were called to philanthropy over selfishness; how much our souls were faithful and hopeful and kind. We want to be remembered for beauty, not in the mirror, but in the memories and lives of others.
Your family, and your community of friends and peers, and all those that you interact with, are already in proximity to both your legacy and invisible inheritance. Will they be better for it?
Years after losing my mother, this is the question I challenge myself with each day. It’s the question that allowed grief to become my motivator and not my excuse. It’s a pursuit and goal that keeps me grounded in loving intentionally, choosing faithfulness over perfection, and waking up each day with a drive to leave people, and things, and places, acknowledged and welcomed intently when in my presence.
2 Timothy 1:5 (NIV)
“I am reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice and, I am persuaded, now lives in you also.”
My mother’s influence flows through me and if my influence will one day do the same, I want it to flow with greatness. I want it to flow with courage and hospitality. I want it to flow with an understanding and abundant kindness. I want it to flow with a faith that outlasts everything and a love that does the same.
If I want an offering that will outlast me, then I need to live each day like my life and memory depend on it, because it does. And yours does too.
When I’m no longer on this side of heaven, I want everyone who knew me, especially my children, to boldly proclaim they are better, not from any materialistic and physical contributions I provided, but by the way I showed up for them each day with an unwavering love and support that was so powerful it encouraged them to do the same.
I want my invisible inheritance to be my most sacred offering.
{If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like this episode of The Love Offering Podcast, where Rachael chats with Lisa Appelo about the unexpected death of her husband. When God feels distant, Lisa encourages us to look for His hand. His comfort may arrive through a Scripture, a meal left on the porch, a friend willing to sit in silence, or enough strength to take the next breath. These acts do not erase our pain, but they remind us that we have not been forgotten. You can listen to the episode here.}
About the Author:
Chelsea Ohlemiller is the author of Now That She’s Gone and is well-known for her blog Happiness, Hope & Harsh Realities, where she examines the intersections of loss, healing, and the pursuit of meaning. Her essays have been featured in two Chicken Soup for the Soul collections, two Guideposts collections, as well as the national bestseller, So God Made a Mother. She lives in Indianapolis with her husband and three children.
