There’s just something about a legacy.

A few days ago, I was on the hunt for some new recipes to fold into my food arsenal. I knew I could tackle this task from various angles: Google (of course), Pinterest (a hole I might never come out of), some of my recipe books, or—an epiphany—my recipe box.

I hadn’t flipped through my brown roll-top recipe box in a hot minute, so I was pretty excited to see what gems were waiting to be rediscovered.

It only took a few moments before I realized I was about to embark on a journey way more profound than searching for sustenance.

Much to my surprise, the recipe box was full of memories from other people. Sure, some of the recipes were scrawled in my scribbly handwriting, copied down from actual recipe books from the library or things I found on the internet that wanted to keep forever. But, as I thumbed through “Drinks/Appetizers” and onto “Main Dishes,” memories flooded over me.

Many of the recipe cards were written on the same card design but by different people.

I remembered that, more than a decade ago when my soldier and I were just preparing to say I do, my mama threw us a bridal shower. Guests were encouraged to bring a treasured family recipe to share with me, the bride-to-be, who would undoubtedly be cooking her beloved infantryman husband hearty meals all the days of their marriage (little did they know that hubs actually prefers to subsist on oven pizza, steak, and chicken wings).

Back then, I thought it was a little old-fashioned, and admittedly, I haven’t cooked or baked many of the contributed recipes. But in that recent moment, I also realized that the content on the index cards actually goes well beyond ingredients and instructions.

Some cards were contributed by my fellow Alpha of Clovia scholarship house sisters, sharing some of the “classic” recipes we cooked for the masses during our time at Kansas State University on Pioneer Lane in Manhattan, Kansas.

Several cards held familiar handwriting: by my Grandma Lacey (my dad’s mom) and Grandma Neva (my mama’s mom). They passed away in 2000 and 2009, respectively, but decades later, it was like they were there. I squinted at their scribbly handwriting on faded index cards, reminding me how to make “Cowless Cow Patties” and “Fried Okra, Oklahoma style.”

Another card was from my husband’s Great Aunt Emma, who passed a few years ago in her 90’s. Same goes for Grandma Helen’s traditional honey cookies—treats enjoyed by kids through generations.

I laughed out loud when I found a pack of “ordered” recipe cards from such a long time ago, sent free as a “promotional” item to my Great Grandma Icie. It instructed how to make some weird marshmallow jello molds for a potluck and soup with ingredients I didn’t even recognize.

There was a recipe from my Great Grandma Bessie, who passed away just a few weeks shy of her 104th (!!!) birthday when I was a freshman in college.

I continued to flip through the cards, now thinking more about the people than the food. I came to Cookies/Desserts and found two cards back-to-back that squeezed my heart. They were each from ladies in my hometown community. One was from a neighbor who helped our family move to the area when I was 10. Cathie was always just a couple miles down the road if we ever needed anything. Her daughter babysat us on occasion, and her husband farmed the land around our home. It broke our heart when we lost her four years ago at the age of 66.

The other card brought tears to my eyes. Oh, Susie Bubna— the “community mom” to all of us growing up (or around) the town of 300 people.  I clutched that peanut butter cookie recipe, remembering her unbelievable generosity, love of people, and her laugh. Oh, her laugh! Making her laugh was one of my favorite past times. She was a nurse, substitute teacher, bus driver, drama coach, pastor’s wife—you name it, she probably did it. Now it’s been more than three years since we’ve heard her laugh, as she died at the age of 62.

As I came to the end of my recipe recon, I realized that the recipe box I purchased when we first got married was just like my mama’s. Small and brown, with a kind of oval sliding top. I have so many memories of learning to cook with my mama, and now, she tells stories about how she is teaching her passel of grandkids to do the same.

I walked over to the cabinet to put away my recipe box, holding the few recipes I pulled and planned to cook in the coming weeks. I closed the cabinet door, and a thought struck me: That box was full of legacy.

Legacy of love.

Legacy of kindness.

Legacy of laughter.

Legacy upon legacy, shared through food, tradition, and memories.

In the days since, I’ve been thinking about my legacy: What type of legacy to I want to leave for future generations of military spouses? For entrepreneurs? Students? Women? People in general?

My hope is that whatever legacy I am working toward, it will last for generations, leaving those who encounter me just a little bit more encouraged, hopeful, and empowered. I hope that you choose to join me in that mission.

Consider your military spouse legacy: What will it be?