The Things We Leave Behind That Matter Most
One of the things I love about writing this blog every week is that I get to share whatever happens to be on my mind. 😊 Sometimes it’s mortgages, sometimes it’s business, and sometimes it’s simply life.
And this week, it’s my dad.
This week marks 11 years since my dad, Darwin Jolley, passed away, and maybe that’s why memories of him have been especially close to the surface. To me, of course, he was simply Daddy.
He was one of the very best men I have ever known. He was kind, funny, hardworking, and he genuinely loved people.
He taught, he served, he could fix just about anything, and he had a wonderful way of making people feel important. But when I think about what he was to me, one thing rises above everything else.
My dad was one of the greatest cheerleaders of my life.
He believed in me—not only when I accomplished something or when there was something to celebrate. He believed in me.
He made me feel like I could do hard things, like my ideas mattered, and like I should try. And if I fell down, I could get back up again.
And when something good happened? Nobody was happier for me than Daddy.
The Gift of Someone Who Believes in You
I’ve been fortunate in my life to have people who saw something in me before I necessarily saw it in myself. My dad was certainly one of them.
As the years have gone by, I’ve realized what an extraordinary gift that is—to be the person in someone’s life who says, “I see you. I believe in you. Keep going.”
We sometimes underestimate how powerful that kind of encouragement can be. A child remembers it, a teenager needs it, and I think even as adults, we still need people in our corner who believe in us.
Long after the person who said those words is gone, somehow we can still hear them.
I know I can.
Seeing My Dad Through Other People’s Eyes
A few years ago, my niece posted a simple question in a Facebook group called Cache Valley Memories: “Does anyone remember USU professor Darwin Jolley?”
And people did. Oh, did they ever. ❤️
Dozens of comments and memories followed. People remembered him from growing up in Providence, Utah. They remembered him as a professor, a neighbor, a friend and a home teacher.
Former students remembered things he had taught them decades earlier. One woman remembered being the only girl in one of his classes and feeling completely out of her element—and how supportive he had been.
Someone who grew up near our family remembered how kind he was when the neighborhood children came around. Another remembered his wonderful smile and the way he greeted people.
And one woman, whose family Daddy had served as a home teacher for years, summed up her memory in just a few words: “He always made me feel loved.”
There were old newspaper clippings, too—pictures and stories of Daddy teaching at Utah State University, working with students, teaching snowmobile maintenance clinics and serving as an advisor.
There were glimpses of his younger years and his military service during the Cold War. I knew all of those pieces of him, of course, but seeing my dad through the memories of other people was different.
What struck me most wasn’t the job titles, the newspaper articles or the things he had accomplished.
It was how people remembered feeling around him.
Maybe That’s What Legacy Really Is
We hear the word legacy and sometimes think it has to be something enormous—a company, a fortune, a building with someone’s name on it, or a long list of accomplishments.
But I’m not sure that’s the most important kind of legacy at all.
Maybe legacy is simply what remains in other people because you were here.
It’s the confidence you gave a child. The kindness you showed someone who needed it. The time you stopped what you were doing and listened.
It’s the encouragement you gave when somebody was ready to quit. The laughter people still remember. The way someone felt when they were around you.
My dad accomplished plenty in his life. He served his country, earned an education, taught generations of students, raised a family, worked hard and contributed to his community.
Those things mattered. But 11 years after losing him, I can honestly say that I mostly miss the man who believed in me, my cheerleader, my daddy. 😊
We’re Creating Our Legacy in Ordinary Moments
Most of us probably won’t know which moments people will remember. That’s the interesting thing about legacy—we’re building it while we’re busy living.
It happens at the dinner table and on an ordinary phone call. It’s in the way we speak to the people we love and the way we treat the people we encounter every day.
It’s in the way we respond when someone shares a dream with us. It’s whether we stop to listen, celebrate someone else’s success, offer encouragement, or simply make sure someone knows they matter.
And I certainly don’t get all of those moments right. I’m still learning, still growing, and still grateful for every opportunity I get to try again.
Those moments can seem so ordinary while they’re happening. Years later, they may be anything but ordinary to the person who remembers them.
My dad probably never went home after encouraging a student and thought, Well, I worked on my legacy today. 😊 He was simply being who he was.
And yet, decades later, someone remembered.
Who Are You Cheering For?
Maybe that’s the question my dad has left on my heart this week—not only who are we cheering for? but who can I cheer for a little better?
Who might need to hear that I believe in them? Who could use encouragement instead of advice? Who might simply need me to notice something they’re doing right?
I won’t always get it right. None of us will. But I love the idea that part of honoring the people who loved us so well is trying to pass a little more of that love and encouragement along.
Daddy did that for me. And 11 years later, I still carry it with me.
That’s legacy.
Final Thought
Of course, I wish I could have one more conversation with my dad. One more hug.
One more chance to tell him about something happening in my life and watch his face light up because, somehow, whatever mattered to me mattered to him.
But mostly, I feel incredibly grateful. Because I had him.
I knew what it felt like to have a father who loved me, believed in me, encouraged me and was proud of me.
What a gift.
So this week, I’m allowing my blog to be a little more personal than usual. I’m remembering Daddy, but I’m also thinking about what his life continues to teach me—and how grateful I am that every day gives us another chance to do a little better.
Another chance to love someone well. To encourage instead of criticize. To listen a little longer. To celebrate someone else. To say, I believe in you. To let the people we love know how much they matter.
I won’t do it perfectly. But what a gift that we get the chance to keep trying.
Someday, the greatest thing we leave behind may not be something anyone can hold in their hands. It may simply be the way someone feels years later when they think of us.
I know exactly how that feels.
My dad was my hero. And 11 years later, he still is. ❤️
— SE
