Marci was 25 when I met her. I was 5. She was my dad’s new girlfriend. She was young and pretty, and fun. I don’t really remember a lot from those years, but I remember liking her, and liking that she married my dad two years later. They started a family together, but included my sister and me in all of that. I watched them grow together—a second family, another little sister, a little brother. Crazy. But wonderful…

Then, one day Marci received a diagnosis. Melanoma. Cancer. And things changed.

She fought. Hard. While she was fighting, alcoholism ripped her own family apart. Her big sister, Jodi on one side, her mother, father, and little sister on the other. I will never forget the night I drove Marci and Jodi to the hospital, where their father was dying. I will never forget the swerving car in front of me. And the realization that the drunk driver in that car was my other aunt. I will never forget these women that I looked up to, leaning on me for support, because they had no one else to lean on. Or the anger and hurt in Marci and Jodi’s faces when I explained to them that their sister was drunk. I will never forget that Marci’s father died that night, and that her family is still not the same, nor will it ever be again, because too many are lost, and the pain still exists in memories.

And I will never forget that less than a year later, my family buried Marci. She was just short of turning 46. She left behind my father, my sister and I, and her two children—who were young teenagers at the time, not to mention a myriad of friends.

She also left behind her faith. In many ways, she left it to me. I don’t know if she realized it, if she even had an inkling of what she was giving me, but it was there. It took a really long time for me to see it, to find it, to feel it, and to accept it. But I did. And I am thankful to her for it.

You see, in addition to her family falling apart. Marci was healing hurts in her own life. She was facing the loss of her life, leaving her children behind, fighting a disease that was taking over her body, and she was leaning on God. Her example and her ability to do this, are what led me to search. After her death, I often wondered how she was able to get through all that, and the only reasonable explanation that I came to, eventually, was God. God had supported her. Her faith had led her through. Only through His strength was she able to survive. At the time, I believed that others (including myself) would not have done the same. I was intrigued by this strength, this ability to see the good in all the bad. I know she wasn’t perfect. I am sure she had her “it’s not fair” and “why me” days. But I never saw them. And, she shared. She shared her faith with me. And little by little, it worked in me. It got under my skin. But I had to lose her to see it.

The day after we buried Marci, over 500 people came to a memorial service at her church. I sang for her. People stood up and talked about how wonderful she was, about how much she got in your space, and about how large her capacity for love was. The room was full of love for this woman who had cared for and loved me for over 20 years. And it was full of God’s love. I remember needing strength to sing. And I remember feeling that strength three or four measures into the song—and I remember the woman who came up to me afterward and mentioned to me that she had been praying for me to have the strength to sing. Or the woman who told me she could see Marci in me--that she could tell Marci had had a hand in my upbringing. Little steps. Small bits of light in the crack of my door.

Less than a year after she died, I started going to church. I started to believe. To believe fully in a God that existed. One that sent His Son to die for us on a cross. And although it is still a process, still a journey, I know that Marci’s legacy lives in me. That when she looked at me and said, “I believe that God has given me this disease so that I might share my experiences with others and help them to feel His love,” that she was talking about me. Neither of us knew or understood that at the time, but I do now. And for that I am thankful. For the hurt and the pain, the discovery and the love, the loss and the gain. I am thankful. And I knew Marci, and now I know God. For that, I am most thankful.