The window in front of me when I write is immense. My office is in a sunroom, so whichever way I turn my head, I see nature.

The sun is starting to get out of bed a little later each morning, so most days when I walk into my office, it’s dark. An interesting reflection is created in the windows when I turn on the light. I bet you’ve seen it before — it’s like the window has become a mirror.

This morning it was very obvious that someone was watching me while I was writing.

When I looked up at that big picture window in front of me, I realized the person looking at me was myself. My entire office, the pictures on the wall, the light fixture, each detail was being reflected back at me.

Good thing I’m not afraid of myself or that could have been really disturbing.

I imagine someday we’ll get to see a really good reflection of our lives. All the things we did well, those times when we blew it, and how, somehow, God consistently made beauty from our ashes.

It’s easy to wonder if what we do matters. The meals, the cleaning, the rides — it can all seem a little mundane at the time. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the message we’re sending while we’re doing those things that really matters.

We make a meal and when it’s devoured without a thought by a hungry teenager, we’re subtly saying we see how much energy they are giving to their after-school activities.

We clean the house and the friend who comes over notices we took the time to make something lovely for their arrival.

We give our kids (or grandkids) endless rides all over town, and then someday realize those were the times we had our best talks.

The message we’re sending while we’re doing all the other things becomes our legacy.

When I ask Saul (my handsome, basketball-loving husband) if he’s read any of my books yet, he tells me he’s waiting for the movie. It’s okay, I really don’t want to sit down and watch the 2004 NCAA Tournament games with him.

We’re doing our own things, but in the midst of that, we are still aware of the legacy the other is leaving. I see him with our daughter. She’s 16 and loves to have her dad tuck her in at night so they can talk about life. She will remember those talks forever.

Last night, I got to see part of my legacy. Saul was reading the eulogy that he will deliver tomorrow at a former player’s funeral. In it, he says the phrase, “Pain and joy exist simultaneously…”

Those are my words. That is what I write and speak, but I never knew my husband had heard it. Huh… I guess he is listening.

What is your legacy? Are you worried it’s not coming through clearly? Or maybe that it’s too undefined? The way you speak, the laughter you bring, and the moments you listen are all your legacy.

We exhale our legacy with every interaction. Someday maybe we’ll get to sit in front of a big picture window and see it reflected back at us.