“Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.” — Psalm 90:1

This summer at Camp Maranatha, the theme was Generations, centered on Psalm 90:1. As I listened to those words, I realized something I had perhaps taken for granted for much of my life – I am here because generations of people prayed for me. Some prayed for the little girl I would become before I was even born. What a profound awareness that has stayed with me.

I grew up living next to my maternal grandparents, and some of my earliest, most treasured memories involve time with my grandmother. I still remember sitting on the arm of the teal mohair couch in their living room, close to my grandmother’s side, as she read God’s Word to me.

She didn’t just tell me about God. She showed me what it looked like to love Him.

She loved His Word, and I don’t believe I have ever known a more dedicated prayer warrior. She loved watching the Billy Graham Crusades on television with me. This was back when watching television required a little more effort than it does today. If you wanted to change the channel or adjust the volume, you had to get up and walk across the room. There was no remote. Perhaps that was good for us. We couldn’t scroll through 500 channels in search of something better. We watched Billy Graham preach—and my grandmother made sure I was listening.

Her influence was neither loud nor complicated. It was consistent.

She also carried a legacy of faith. Her grandfather was a minister in the hills of western North Carolina. The faith that had been passed down to her was now being passed down to me—generation after generation.

Recently, I discovered something that brought tears to my eyes. I never had the chance to know my paternal grandparents. While going through old family papers, I found letters my paternal grandmother had written to my parents before I was born. She knew a little one was coming and was praying for me.

After I was born, my parents sent her a photograph of me, and she placed it on her dresser. In another letter, she told my parents that every time she walked past that dresser, she prayed for me. I never met her, yet she knew me and prayed for me. Think about that for a minute.

I had accomplished nothing. I hadn’t written a book. I hadn’t raised three sons. I hadn’t yet walked through grief or written about God’s faithfulness. I hadn’t done anything to make me worthy of someone’s prayers. I was simply a little girl whose picture sat on her grandmother’s dresser. She never held me in her arms, but she prayed for me. That is legacy.

Legacy Isn’t Just What We Leave Behind, but What Will We Pass On?

When we hear the word legacy, we often think about what we will leave behind—maybe our name, possessions, or perhaps a scholarship to honor someone.

Those things can all be meaningful. But I am becoming increasingly convinced that our greatest legacy isn’t what we leave for someone. It is what we leave in someone. The words we speak, the prayers we pray, or the example we live. The faithfulness we demonstrate when no one is watching. We may never know the full impact of those things this side of heaven.

My grandmother probably had no idea that decades later I would still remember sitting beside her on that teal couch. My paternal grandmother could not have known what that little girl in the photograph would experience throughout her lifetime. They prayed anyway. And I believe someone prayed for them.

God has been our dwelling place throughout all generations. That is the beautiful part of Psalm 90:1. We are not creating our legacy in isolation. We are part of a much bigger story. Whether we realize it or not, we are all leaving something behind. Our children are listening; our grandchildren and neighbors are watching. People are observing how we respond when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Even our ordinary moments can become part of someone’s story. I think about this when I teach pickleball. Sometimes I am teaching a child how to hold a paddle or keep their eye on the ball. But perhaps I am also teaching them that an older woman can still learn something new, have fun, encourage others, and show up with joy. I don’t know what they will remember. We don’t always get to choose which part of our lives becomes someone else’s memory. That’s why our everyday lives matter.

Four Ways to Build a Faith-Filled Legacy

You don’t have to be famous or wealthy to leave a legacy. You don’t have to have grandchildren or write books. You simply need to be willing to invest in the people God has placed in your life.

Here are four simple places to begin.

1. Pray for the next generation.

Don’t underestimate the power of a grandmother praying beside a photo on her dresser.

Pray specifically. Pray by name. When appropriate, tell them you’re praying for them. They may not appreciate it today, but God hears, and that matters.

2. Share God’s Word in ordinary moments.

My grandmother didn’t need a Bible study curriculum or a clever lesson plan. She opened God’s Word and read it to me.

Find ways to bring Scripture into everyday life. Maybe it’s a verse on a note card, a conversation in the car, or a Bible story shared with a child. God’s Word doesn’t need our creativity to be powerful.

3. Live the faith you want to pass on.

Children and grandchildren may forget what we tell them, but they often remember what they see. For me, this has been especially important. How did we respond when we were disappointed? Did we forgive and trust God when we couldn’t understand what He was doing? Did we pray? That’s the kind of legacy that can’t be packed into a trunk or a box and handed down. It has to be lived.

4. Tell the stories.

Don’t assume the next generation knows where their faith came from. Tell them. Tell them about the grandmother who prayed or the grandfather who served. Tell them about the times God carried your family through hardship and what God has taught you. Stories give faith a history. And sometimes knowing where we came from helps us understand where we are going.

A Legacy We May Never See

One of the humbling things about legacy is that we may never know the reach of our obedience. My paternal grandmother never saw the woman I would become. She didn’t know about the farm or my family. She didn’t know about my books, pickleball, or the many twists and turns my life would take. She simply knew a little baby was coming into the family. And she prayed. I wonder what prayers were offered for her before she was born.

Generations praying. It reminds me that my life is not a standalone story. Neither is yours. We are links in a chain of faith that began long before us and, if we are faithful, will continue long after we are gone. Or perhaps you become the first link in your family’s chain of faith.

So, the question isn’t What will I leave behind? But rather: Who will be different because I was here?

Whose faith will be strengthened because I prayed? Or whose heart will know God’s love because I took the time to show it?

I can’t answer that question, but I do know what I hope they remember: That God is faithful, His Word is true, and that prayer matters. And someday, when my name is only a memory to another generation, I pray they will be able to say:

She pointed us to Jesus.