She is the reason I know how to carry love through loss.

She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. But she was everything. My grandmother, Jeanne Evans Seacrist Jarrell—Jean to most—was one of those people who didn’t have to try to be important. She just was. There was a presence about her. A stillness that made you feel like things were going to be okay, even if they weren’t. She was born March 27, 1924, and lived through nearly a century of change—but she never once lost her sense of self. Before she got married, she had a whole life of her own. She lived in Washington, D.C. in her twenties—on her own—working for the Social Security Board (what became the Social Security Administration in 1946), supervising a glass bottle factory, riding the train back home to Charleston on weekends where her parents would pick her up and take her to Kingston. She met my Pawpaw, Dorsel, at the Charleston train station. He was a WWII vet, a proud coal miner, and a preacher—exactly the kind of man who’d fall for a woman like her. And exactly the kind of man who’d need her help writing his sermons later on.But what most people didn’t know—to the best of my knowledge—is that she was engaged before she met Pawpaw. A soldier. He never came home from the war. He gave her a ring, and she kept that story to herself but I don’t think she’d care that I tell it now. That ring became a secret heirloom, passed down to the oldest niece in each generation. It wasn’t about tragedy—it was about honor. About holding onto love even when it changed form.Jean was a proud American and a humble Christian. She didn’t quote Scripture to show off. She quoted it because it lived in her. Her favorite line—the one she came back to over and over—was: “Love thy neighbor.” And she meant it. That was her ethic. That was her compass. And it’s the thing I hear in my head most when I think of her.She lost two loves of her life. She had cancer. She had dementia. She had surgeries in her nineties most people wouldn’t have bounced back from in their sixties. And, believe it or not, she even survived being buried alive once, in a gravel truck accident. The driver dug her out—and somehow, she walked away. But Jean kept going. Not in some dramatic, heroic way—just in the way she always had.And she had style. Always. Big glasses. Pearls. A wardrobe that didn’t quit, even when her body started to. She was the kind of woman who could organize a church potluck, handle the books, and still stop for a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae on the way home like it was the most normal thing in the world. That was her magic. That was her rhythm.She held me differently than she held the others. That’s not ego—that’s just something I felt. And I see it in the pictures, too. I was always tucked in a little closer. Her hand always found mine. She was my anchor. I think I was hers too.Even near the end, when her memory was fading fast, she still knew the people who mattered. She still smiled. She still showed up in the ways she could. And that says more than any diagnosis ever could.She died on October 9, 2020. But she’s not gone. I still see her every time I pass a bottle of Coca-Cola (“Co-cola” as she said it). I hear her in the quiet moments, when I need grounding. I feel her when I show up for other people with that same steady love.She didn’t need applause. She didn’t need to be the center of attention. She just needed to love—and to be loved. And she was. By taking this step, I'm raising funds to support the critical work of the Alzheimer's Association: providing care and support for families, advancing promising research and offering a lifeline through their free 24/7 Helpline (800.272.3900). Every dollar raised helps ensure that no one faces Alzheimer's alone. I'd be so grateful if you would make a memorial gift in their name. It would mean a lot to me and those facing this relentless disease.  A future without Alzheimer's is out there. Let's get there, together.  Thank you in advance for your kindness and generosity.