How do you measure a life?

We do not exist alone. Every part of our being is shaped by the people we've walked next to and experiences we've endured. Moments of weakness. Moments of pain. Moments of strength. And moments of celebration. Each one, both big and small, carve our heart and soul taking the canvas of our lives and give it shape and character. What we do with that, who we become is up to us.
Over the past few months I've lost people who impacted my life in one way or another, and the question I continue to ponder over and over is, "how do you measure a life?" Of course, the reality is, those doing the measuring are the ones left behind which means what you think of your life - your legacy - doesn't really matter. We spend our lives trying to tell ourselves that what others think doesn't matter, that we shouldn't care about other's opinions of us but in the end what's left is just that. How we are remembered is left up to those who knew us, or maybe never even met us but hear stories about us from the perspective of whoever is doing the telling. The real story...who we truly are, what matters to us, how we think and feel, who and how we love, our dreams both realized and unfulfilled, our regrets, the accomplishments celebrated and the moments we are challenged from outside and even more so from within...that story goes with us.
Gran died 10 years ago today. There is no beautiful sunrise to help us ease into this morning, only a cold, dark start to a heavy memory. I woke up just after six dreaming of her. She was simply sitting in her chair and I was at her feet on the little three-legged footstool. There were no words, she simply was looking at me and I back at her. To me, she was every bit of amazing. She was kind and gentle, loving and generous, full of grit and grace. She loved her family with all of her being and loved Jesus even more. I rarely saw her drink anything other than black coffee but knew that a shot of Jack before bed (two if you're sick) was recommended. She was always in her kitchen and could be found puffing on her pipe and even the occasional cigar - both things she would kill me for telling you, but anyone who knew her saw this as endearing rather than crude. She woke before dawn; starting coffee, listening to the radio and police scanner, playing solitaire, setting the tea out on the porch, eating her bran flakes with Milnot, reading the morning paper...and indulging a certain redheaded grand-daughter who often rose not long after her and who wanted nothing more than those precious moments alone with her before everyone else needed her for something. She baked pies like no one else - something Becca has worked hard to perfect in her honor. She loved singing in the church choir and I will never forget the pride I felt when we walked into the church the night of her visitation and her choir robe had been laid over the last seat in the choir loft - her spot, nearest the pastor, where she had kept watch over her church family for nearly 100 years. She wrote letters and sent cards, often weekly when I had lived away...small reminders of home and the simple way she cared for those around her. Mary Christine - she always said she didn't like her name although I don't know why. Perhaps she preferred her identical twin's name - Frances Estelle - but I always thought Mary fit her perfectly. Small in size, mighty in everything else. She knew just how to make everyone feel special and never wanted anyone to feel left out or slighted. Her grace was plentiful, but her wit was quick and if you were ever on the receiving end of anything less than a kind word you most certainly deserved it. She apologized when necessary and taught lessons that truly mattered. She told the best stories, and had some doozies to tell! She had helped deliver babies and sat with many in our small community as they passed. My Pop-Pop was her husband of over 50 years but her twin sister was her true love. Through their unique bond she taught Sarah, Becca and I many things but most importantly to take care of each other, to be there no matter what. We ate more meals around her table than I could ever count. Dad, Unkie and Pop-Pop talking shop and telling stories about "oh, you know who I'm talking about. She lived in the old Hubbard place where so and so lives now" as the three of us girls talked over them while she sat watching quietly either from the exhaustion of taking care of everyone else or just taking it all in - likely a little of both. She tied our family together...I think that is part of what I miss most. When she passed a chapter in our family closed. My sisters and I each carry some of her within us and cling to any small trait of hers we might possess. She wasn't perfect and she certainly didn't think she was, but to those of us who knew and loved her she was pretty damn close. She didn't dwell on the past...she was a worrier, but she didn't dwell. The past was gone and it was our job to learn from it and cherish the memories, but there was no sense in dwelling on any of it. So, maybe that's the lesson. Those who are gone take who they were with them. It's up to those of us left to take what they left us with and do something good with it rather than dwell on the fact they are gone.
How do you measure a life? Is it the life that is lived, or the legacy and the impact on others that is the true measure?
Gran left us with so much. I know there are many things I didn't know about her, but I think she would be okay with others measuring her life by the love she showed and the grace she extended.