When my mama was a little girl, her parents built a house on some farmland in south Mississippi. For over forty years they grew all kinds of vegetables, tended cows, raised chickens, and, more than anything else, created a haven for their children and grandchildren. As one of those grandchildren, I can tell you without hesitation that there isn’t any place on earth that holds sweeter memories for me.

I think I was in the fourth grade when Mamaw and Papaw decided to sell the farm. It became more than they could manage, so they bought a house “in town” (if you consider a community with three stop signs a town, that is). We all missed the farm like crazy, and when a fire destroyed the old farmhouse several years later, we grieved. I was barely a teenager when it happened, and even though Mamaw and Papaw didn’t live there anymore, it felt like the end of an era.

It’s now been over thirty years since Mamaw and Papaw’s old house burned. It’s been almost forty years since our family had any claim to that land. But I don’t think a single week passes when I don’t talk about wanting to buy a tiny little piece of what used to be my grandparents’ farm in Moss Rose, Mississippi. I can’t really explain it, but my soul craves that place. My sister and my cousin Paige feel the same way.

And about three years ago, after a way-too-long separation, I felt like I needed to see that land again.

Alex and I were in my hometown visiting my parents over President’s Day weekend, and that Monday morning I announced that it was high time for an impromptu family field trip. Mamaw and Papaw’s old place wasn’t that far away, and in addition to the fact that I had a personal pilgrimage on the brain, I really wanted Alex, who was ten, to finally see the place he’d heard about so often. He’d been listening to me talk about Mamaw and Papaw Davis—who both passed away before I graduated from high school—for his whole life, and it was high time for him to have a place to put with the people.

So Mama, Alex, and I climbed in my car, and off we went. It only took us about five minutes to get to the interstate, so I turned south, set the cruise control, and silently wondered how many times I’d sat in the back seat just like Alex while my daddy drove our family to Mamaw and Papaw’s house.

I never did come up with a number. But we went at least once a month for the first twelve years of my life, so have at it, math geniuses.

After about twenty minutes we turned off the interstate onto the highway that leads to Moss Rose, and I later told my sister that as soon as we turned on that two-lane road, Mama was fifteen years old all over again. She narrated nonstop, telling us who lived where when she was a little girl, what they did for a living, whether they went to the Methodist or the Baptist church. Before too long we came to an intersection that used to have a blinking light but now has a stop sign, and instead of turning in the direction of Mamaw and Papaw’s house, I went straight. Our first stop was going to be Moss Rose United Methodist Church.

Mama, a lifelong Methodist, grew up at Moss Rose UMC just like four generations of Davises before her. It’s where she was baptized, where she first sang in the choir, and where she ate many a fried chicken leg at who knows how many dinners on the grounds. It’s where she learned about Jesus, where she and Daddy were married, and where our family celebrated the lives of my grandparents when they went home to be with the Lord. Mama could always count on an abundance of aunts and uncles and cousins being in attendance—Moss Rose was chock-full-o-kinfolk—so every Sunday was like a family reunion. In fact, one of Mama’s aunts, Myrtle, lived in a house about five steps away from the church—so close, in fact, that if she ever overslept for Sunday school, it would have been perfectly feasible for someone to open the church’s front door, stand on the stoop, and yell, “HEY, MYRT—TIME TO WAKE UP!”

As far as I know, that never happened. But I bet you a dollar to a doughnut that Aunt Myrt kept track of the comings and goings in the church parking lot. I imagine she even called a few folks on her avocado rotary dial phone to let them know what was going on, too.

On the day of our visit, Mama, Alex, and I parked the car and walked around the church a bit, even tried to open a couple of doors. But when it was clear that we weren’t going to be able to get in the sanctuary, we snapped a few pictures, got back in the car, and made a quick stop at the cemetery before we finally found what used to be Mamaw and Papaw’s driveway. The current owner of the property put up a fence running the length of what used be the front yard and the most visible section of the pasture, so Alex and I would have to climb over a gate if we wanted to do any exploring.

We most definitely wanted to explore. And since Mama could name almost every family who lives in that neck of the woods—and since no one actually lives on Mamaw and Papaw’s land anymore—we felt like it was okay to do a tiny bit of trespassing.

So that is exactly what we did.

Mama opted to stay in the car since fence-climbing wasn’t too high on her list, and as soon as Alex and I climbed the fence and stepped onto what used to be Mamaw and Papaw’s driveway, I felt a lump form in the back of my throat. While I had expected that standing on that land might cause a few memories to flutter across my mind, I wasn’t prepared for how they washed over me—and with some authority, at that.

We stood in silence for a minute, my boy and me, while I let my eyes roam from one side of the property to the other. Then I took a deep breath, grabbed Alex’s hand, and started walking.

Part of Mamaw and Papaw’s chimney survived the fire (plus the thirty years since), and the first thing I noticed as we walked toward it was the cast iron cleanout door on the front. I must have opened and closed that thing a thousand times over the course of my childhood; it used to squeak like crazy, and sometimes I’d even scoop out the ashes. It was hanging by one hinge, so I didn’t touch it, but even the sight of it made me feel like I’d traveled back in time. My attention gradually shifted to the concrete steps that used to lead to the front door; how in the world they were still standing was beyond me. I wondered if they’d still make a good stage for a pretend Miss America evening gown competition. Heaven knows they served pretty well in that capacity when I was younger.

The buildings that surrounded the area where the house used to be were still standing and mostly intact. Papaw had built them all—a chicken coop, a smokehouse that later functioned as a workshop, a big barn with stables and a hayloft—and it flat-out delighted me for Alex to see the work of his great-grandfather’s hands. We walked the perimeter of those buildings for ten minutes, probably, though it might be more accurate to say that what I actually did was wade in a deep river of nostalgia. I rubbed my hands over the barn wood, peeked in the remaining window frames, and remembered the strangest things—like how Papaw liked to store random nuts and bolts in Mason jars, or how his tractor seat used to squeak—that I thought I’d long forgotten. And about the time that Alex and I were trying to decide if it was too muddy to walk up the hill to the chicken house, we rounded the corner by what used to be the carport, and I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that I never expected to see.

Let me explain.

When I was four or five, Mamaw and Papaw added a screened-in side porch off their kitchen. It ran the length of the carport and was pretty utilitarian: it had a three-quarter bath for Papaw to wash up after he’d been outside all day, a screen door that led to the backyard, another one that led to the carport, and a laundry room that housed Mamaw’s washer, dryer, and deep freeze—along with all the vegetables and jellies and pickles she canned in the summertime.

(Mamaw’s homemade plum jelly deserves its own chapter.)

(Just know that there’s not a Thanksgiving that passes when I don’t wish for some to put on top of my cornbread dressing.)

The screened-in porch burned to the ground during the fire, but the day we visited, the porch’s cement slab was right where it had always been. I could even see where the pipes used to run into the bath. And off to the side of the spot where that bathroom used to be, Mamaw’s cast iron kitchen sink was sitting right side up, as easily identifiable as it had been when I was a child.

Granted, it was considerably worse for the wear. Layers of rust and dirt covered the original porcelain coating; leaves and limbs filled the sink basin to overflowing. But there was no doubt that it was her sink, and the sight of it conjured all sorts of mental images: Mamaw moving back and forth between the sink and the stove, Mama and my aunt Chox washing dishes after Sunday lunch, Paige and me reaching up to twist the faucet handle so we could get a drink of that ice cold Moss Rose well water, Mamaw turning around and grinning at Papaw while he read the paper at the kitchen table.

And as Alex and I stood there and stared at that sink, as I tried to figure out how in the world that sink was still in one piece, as I realized that Alex was probably thinking, Um, Mama, I don’t get it—it’s just an old, rusty sink, one very clear and concrete thought began to form in my brain:

HOW DO I GET THIS SINK IN MY CAR?

Oh, and I wasn’t one bit kidding, either. I wanted that sink in my car RIGHT THAT SECOND, and while I didn’t really know how I was going to move it, much less carry it, much less load it, I WANTED THAT SINK. I wanted a tangible reminder of Mamaw’s life, something that I could eventually use in my own kitchen as a daily reminder of how she loved and served her family. It didn’t make a lick of logical sense, but in that moment, standing on that land, looking at all that grime and rust, I wanted that sink as much as I’ve ever wanted anything.

And with that deep want firmly established, I began to envision all sorts of take-the-sink scenarios. In fact, in the interest of adequately communicating my frame of mind, I will share a few of those scenarios at this juncture.

Plan #1: Powered by a collective surge of superhuman strength, Alex and I would carry the sink to my car.

Plan #2: I would use a giant chain to attach the sink to the back of my Highlander.

Plan #3: I would walk to the nearest house and see if the homeowner had a small trailer I could hitch to the back of my car.

All of these options seemed totally feasible for approximately twenty-four seconds.

Eventually, though, I started to snap out of my hypothetical sink-stealing reverie, and when clarity settled in, here’s what I knew for sure:

Reality #1: I don’t actually own a chain large enough or strong enough to attach a cast iron sink to a mid-size SUV.

Reality #2: Even if I could attach the sink to the Highlander, I’m pretty sure it would fulfill every single Mississippi stereotype to drag a sink down the interstate.

Reality #3: Dragging the sink via chain also comes with a high probability of SPARKS.

Reality #4: That sink probably weighs 150 pounds, and the only help I have in this south Mississippi pasture is a ten-year-old boy and an eighty-year-old woman. Picking up anything heavier than a brick is what we would call HIGHLY UNLIKELY.

Reality #5: Assuming Alex and I got the sink to the fence (under the influence of the aforementioned surge of superhuman strength), there’s basically no hope at all for getting the sink over the fence unless Mama has secretly been powerlifting.

Reality #6: Pretty sure there’s no trailer hitch on the back of the Highlander.

Reality #7: SNAP OUT OF IT, WOMAN—THIS SINK DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU, YOU’RE NOT TAKING IT ANYWHERE, AND P.S., YOU’RE ALREADY TRESPASSING.

So finally—completely resigned to my sink-less fate—I grabbed Alex’s hand one more time, walked away from the sink, and headed in the direction of the car.

But I bet I turned and looked at that sink at least five times before we left.

I stopped just short of blowing a few kisses in its general direction.

If you’ve been paying really close attention up until this point, you know that so far two primary duos have served as the objects of our discussion and, clearly, our affection: (1) Mary and Elizabeth, and (2) Ruth and Naomi. With Mary and Elizabeth we broke down the implications of the verses in Luke 1 that cover their time together, and with Ruth and Naomi we looked at big ideas from each of the four chapters. Hopefully some of those takeaways will inform and affect the ways we interact with / minister to / take care of the women ahead of us and behind us. Hopefully revisiting their stories will encourage us to cheer on other women in Jesus’ name. Because while there’s no doubt that Mary, Elizabeth, Ruth, and Naomi had enormous influence as mothers, it’s also good to remember that they also blessed the body of Christ as trailblazers for female friendship across generations.

Which leads us to Lois and Eunice.

And let’s just go ahead and get this disclaimer out of the way: Lois and Eunice are mentioned in Scripture for, like, a minute. The only time we even see their names is in the first chapter of 2 Timothy, when Paul pointed out Timothy’s spiritual heritage:

I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well. (v. 5)

There’s at least one person who just read that last part and thought, That’s it? A SENTENCE? AND YOU NAMED YOUR BOOK AFTER ONE OF THEM?

You’d better believe I did.

For a whole host of reasons.

But before we get into that, an anecdote.

A few years ago I heard Beth Moore teach a lesson on 2 Timothy 1, and she asked us to figure out if we were closer to Timothy, Eunice, or Lois in terms of our age. Since there was a pretty wide range of ages in attendance, she also told us that for the purposes of that particular afternoon, we’d consider the women between twenty and thirty-nine as the Timothys, the women between forty and fifty-nine as the Eunices, and the women sixty-and-up as the Loises. Having recently turned forty-one, I was clearly in the Eunice camp, and I happened to be with one of my very best friends, Melanie, who was two months shy of her fortieth birthday.

That means she was still thirty-nine.

Well, at the end of our lesson, we all stood up and spoke a blessing/commissioning over the women who belonged to different generations. The Timothys and Eunices blessed the Loises, the Timothys and Loises blessed the Eunices, and the Eunices and Loises blessed the Timothys.

That means that Melanie had to bless me as an older woman in her life, which was kind of funny, honestly. But when I had to bless her thirty-nine-years-and-ten-months-old self as a younger woman in my life? I may have struggled to find the humor in that specific moment.

Melanie, however, was as delighted as I’ve ever seen her. So maybe this is a good time to point out that sometimes, as we reach out to the generations behind us and ahead of us, we will be deeply humbled.

Or maybe even a little ticked off because CROSS ON OVER, SISTER; YOU ARE PRACTICALLY MY SAME AGE.

So yes. I’m a Eunice. Duly noted. And I say that not just because of the age ranges in the Bible lesson I mentioned, but also because by anyone’s standards, I’m in the middle stage of my life. I’m a daughter and a wife and mama and most definitely not a young’un anymore—but I haven’t crossed over into Lois territory just yet.

My Eunice-ness doesn’t stop there. Because Eunice, as best we can tell from her lightning-fast appearance in Scripture, was a mama who was doing her best to pass along what she knew to her son. She was intentionally reaching out to the generation behind her and working (with her mom, Lois) to train up Timothy in the way he should go (Prov. 22:6). In 2 Timothy 3:14–15, Paul even reminded his younger friend to “continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.”

In other words: “Your mama and grandmama have raised you right, Timothy.”

As someone who, like Eunice, is also a mama, I pray that any teaching/training I’ve done with Alex will have that kind of impact. Granted, I know there have been times when I’ve probably passed on a little too much information about pop music and my favorite YouTube videos, but I sure do hope that David and I are giving our boy a foundation of faith that can withstand whatever the world throws his way. I know that he’s heard our love for Jesus, but oh have mercy I pray that he’s seen it, that he trusts it, and that as he continues to grow in his own faith, he’ll have the courage to follow Jesus however and wherever He leads.

Because Lord willing, I cannot wait to see Alex Hudson become a man who consistently and joyfully walks in the truth (3 John 1:4). I know so many of y’all share that same desire for your sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, godchildren, next-door neighbors, coworkers, calculus students, Bible study girls, YOU NAME IT.

And here’s the other part of that. While the whole notion of “spiritual children” isn’t specifically addressed in 2 Timothy, I don’t think it’s much of a leap to say that Paul was building on the foundation that Lois and Eunice established for Timothy. Paul loved Timothy like a son, and certainly he took him under his spiritual wing. He even addressed Timothy as “my beloved child.” So even though Timothy had a Greek biological father (Acts 16:1), he also had a spiritual father in his friend and mentor, Paul.

What a great reminder that when it comes to investing in the generation behind us, sharing our faith with them, leading them, and even serving with them, we’re not limited to the folks in our immediate families. Titus 2:3–5 exhorts older women to “[teach] what is right and good, so that they may encourage the young women to tenderly love their husbands and their children, to be sensible, pure, makers of a home [where God is honored], good-natured, being subject to their own husbands, so that the word of God will not be dishonored” (amp). That admonition applies whether we’re related or not.

Bottom line: If you know people who are younger than you are? And you also know people who are older than you are? And you genuinely desire to love and serve those folks in Jesus’ name?

EUNICE AWAY, my friends.

Last thing.

Maybe the biggest reason I’m so drawn to Eunice and what she represents is because of two key words Paul used: “sincere faith.” Paul said that Timothy’s “sincere faith” was “a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice.” Maybe I’m overstating the obvious, but it seems to me that a sincere faith in Jesus is a faith with some impact. Sincere faith is genuine faith; it’s not manufactured, it’s not sugar-coated, it’s not manipulative, it’s not self-righteous, and it’s not condemning. It’s real—and it’s faith we put into practice smack-dab in the middle of the good, the bad, the heartbreaking, and the joyful.

And when I think about the people who have had the biggest impact on my personal walk with the Lord, this is their kind of faith. Sincere faith is what I see in my parents. It’s what I see in older friends like Mary Jo and Anne and Pattie and Marcia and Vickie and Pat and others who have made the time to speak into and over my life. It’s what I pray the younger people in my life see in me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a work in progress FOR SURE. But what I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is that there is no greater adventure than surrendering to the abundant life we have in Jesus. I would have never believed it when I was twenty-two, but embracing the purpose God has entrusted to us for our good and His glory? Following hard after the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever?

It is the biggest blast you and I will ever have.

Paul knew it. I can’t help but think that Lois, Eunice, and Timothy knew it, too.

And if you know it?

Don’t hide that light under a bushel, sister.

Pass it on.

So. About that sink.

I really didn’t take it that day we visited Moss Rose.

But I’ve been thinking about it for three years.

And I know it’s still in the same spot, primarily because Paige and her family went down to Mamaw and Papaw’s old land for their own walk-around a couple of months ago. Paige also had a tearful reunion with the sink and the slab and the chimney cleanout door as she stood there in the middle of the pasture, and she probably would have pitched a tent and spent the night if not for that pesky trespassing business.

Well.

For the last few months David and I have been talking about updating our kitchen, which is currently stuck in all manner of 1988 glory. I don’t know when we’ll finally get around to starting the project—there are about sixteen things ahead of it on our house to-do list—but I have already vowed and sworn and declared that if there is any possible way to make it happen, my new kitchen sink will be Mamaw’s old one. Legally acquired, for sure. Refurbished and restored, of course.

And yes, if you think about it, going to Lowe’s or Home Depot would be so much easier. We could pick out a new sink in fifteen minutes and probably have it installed within a couple of days. On a scale of zero to total hassle, a brand-new sink registers way lower on the annoyance meter.

Mamaw’s sink, though, means something to me. It was an integral part of how she cared for our family, how she demonstrated her love, how she taught us, and how she showed us who she was. I’m pretty sure I learned everything I ever knew about Mamaw while I was sitting in her kitchen. That sink is worth the trouble.

But all that being said, here’s what occurs to me.

If I am that committed to a seventy-five-year-old sink—if it carries such significance in my life that I am willing to (very foolishly) contemplate ATTACHING IT TO MY VEHICLE WITH A CHAIN—then how much more should I be fighting for the stuff that really and truly matters? Yes, I have a strange attachment to that old piece of cast iron, but at the end of the day, it’s just a thing. It symbolizes something, but it’s not the something.

Because what I miss about Mamaw Davis isn’t her sink. It isn’t her kitchen. I do miss her apple tarts a whole lot, for sure—and if you’d ever had them, you would, too—but they’re certainly not the biggest part of this deal.

So here’s what I really miss.

I miss her wisdom. Her calm. Her humility. Her gentleness. And while I know it was faith that brought those qualities to life in her, I would give anything to be able to talk to her about it. I’d give anything to be able to grab her hand and look in her eyes and say, “I see Jesus all over you. How did that happen? How does your faith impact your marriage? How did it shape the way you raised your babies? When do you feel closest to the Lord? What do you love the most about Him?”

I have so many questions for her, y’all.

And that sink will never be able to answer them.

It’s weird, isn’t it? In so many ways we get fixated on what we’re going to leave people when we die or what they’re going to leave us when they do. Family members claim certain pieces of furniture, argue over who is going to get the silver, and threaten to write off their siblings if they don’t get Aunt Gertrude’s crystal water goblets. We can get ridiculous about the dumbest things; we act like an antique bed or a sterling platter or an Oriental vase is the very essence of the person who passed away.

And listen. As someone who clearly has a vested interest in an old cast iron sink, I understand why those things can be special.

But in the end, it’s all just stuff.

And stuff will never, ever be the same thing as legacy.

So in these last couple of chapters, we’re going to look at the big picture of why all of this matters—whether we’re a young’un, a middle-aged ’un, or an older ’un. We’re going to dig into a couple of questions that I hope will get to the heart of why cross-generational relationships are so important in the here and now.

What have we inherited?

What are we passing on?

Because that “sincere faith” that “first dwelt” in Lois and Eunice?

THAT IS THE TICKET, Y’ALL.

That’s what we ought to be fighting to haul out of people’s pastures, so to speak.

So if you’ll permit me, I’m going to err on the side of personal and reflective in this last section. I want to talk about how the sincere faith of other women—my mama, in particular—has impacted my own walk with the Lord. And I want to tell you where my heart is in terms of caring for the next generation.

Come to think of it, you might want to warm up a little bit before you keep reading. Swing your arms back and forth. Do a few shoulder rolls. Because ultimately—hopefully—we’re going to lift our arms, open our hands, and get ready to reach out to the women on either side of us.

It may require some stretching, but the good news is we’ll be more limber than ever.

And who knows? I might finally be able to pick up that sink.

(I can’t help it. I still want it.)

(I’m only human, after all.)