The love that made me

I come from a long line of people who held on.

Some held on to land—like the Lallys of Galway, who lived close to the soil and closer still to tradition. Some held on to faith—like the McGinnises, whose roots dig deep into Northern Irish stone. Some held on to hope—like my grandmother Revelis, whose parents fled civil war in the Balkans carrying only what they could bear.

Others held on to each other.

My lineage isn’t just a story of where I’m from, but of what was chosen—what was endured—so that I could be here, now, building something sacred.

This is my offering to them. A remembering. This is where I’m from so I can know where I can go and what I can endure for hope, faith, and love.

My Paternal Grandparents: The Lallys and Revelis

My father’s parents were from two different worlds. My grandfather, a Lally, came from the Irish soil—Galway, where the winds carry stories and the land holds the memory of a people who never let go of their roots. He was a quiet, kind, and deeply loyal man who lived a good, long life. The kind passed down not through words, but through hands that worked, eyes that watched, and a spine that never bowed. He lived to 98 and always loved my grandmother, who passed 20 years prior in 2001, when I was in my senior year of High School.

My grandmother, born Revelis, carried the fire of the Greeks in her blood. Her parents fled civil war, crossing lands with barely more than willpower and prayer. I don’t know all the details of their escape, but I know what it cost them: home, language, certainty. And yet they planted new roots in unfamiliar soil, and from that my grandmother grew—fierce, resilient, and proud. She was my confirmation sponsor, wore a veil to Church, and practiced the kind of faith that was committed and loving.

Together, my grandparents made a home out of memory and motion. The old world lived in our kitchen—in the food, in the fading wallpaper, in the stories told half in jest and half in code. I carry their blend in me: Irish stone and Greek flame. And through my father, their love made its way into the world again.

My Maternal Grandparents: The McGinnises and McFaddens

My mother’s parents held a kind of warmth that didn’t announce itself but wrapped around you quietly, like a hand-knitted blanket passed down through generations. My grandfather, a McGinnis, came from Northern Irish stock—strong, practical, proud. He had a sense of discipline that was never harsh, just steady. He believed in order, in doing what needed to be done, and in protecting the ones he loved. I remember his presence more than his words—he didn’t have to say much, but when he did, it was filled with humor and a positive attitude. The way he moved through the world taught me enough.

My grandmother, a McFadden, is tough as nails. She has that Donegal spirit—a mix of salt air and old songs. There was a sacredness in the way she moved through the house, her rituals of care, her Catholic devotion humming underneath everything she did. She believed in goodness, in grace, and in giving people the benefit of the doubt, even if she brought a bit of judgment with her, as one who raises eight kids must to keep the order. I inherited a tenderness I once mistook for weakness—but now know as holy. She's my one living grandparent and I'm lucky to have her.

Together, they created a space where family gathered, stories were passed, and love was shown in the way the table was set, the way the holidays came alive. Their home had the feel of a hearth—something ancient and protective, something that stayed with you even after you left.

The Love Beneath the Sacrifice

I used to think sacrifice was about giving something up. But now I see—it was always about love. The kind of love that doesn't draw attention to itself. The kind that folds itself into routines, into long workdays, into sleepless nights and second jobs, into crossing oceans with no guarantee of safety on the other side.

My grandparents didn't talk about sacrifice. They lived it. It showed up in quiet endurance, in prayers whispered at kitchen tables, in meals made from little and shared with many. It lived in the small, steady choices: to stay, to forgive, to keep going, to keep loving even when it hurt.

They gave so that others could have. They lost things they never talked about so that we might live with fewer shadows. Their lives were not easy—but they were luminous in their quiet service. And beneath every hard decision, every moment of grit and silence, was a deep and faithful kind of love.

I carry that love. I am shaped by it, held by it, and called to live in a way that honors it.

Becoming the Prayer of Their Lives

Sometimes I wonder if my grandparents ever imagined me. If in some quiet moment, before sleep or in the hush of early morning, they ever thought of the future not just in years, but in hearts. Did they pray for me—not by name, but by hope? Did they ask that their sacrifices lead to softness, to safety, to someone choosing beauty in a world that so often forgets it?

I am the prayer they never spoke aloud but lived into being.

Their faith—sometimes wordless, sometimes wrapped in ritual—lives on in me. Their endurance gave me freedom. Their silence gave me song. Their boundaries gave me room to reach.

I’ve come to believe I am not just my own becoming—I am theirs. I am what was dreamed in the dark. A life shaped by their courage and consecrated by their quiet love.

To live in joy, to speak with tenderness, to offer something beautiful to this world—that is how I become the prayer of their lives.

A Blessing for Those Who Came Before

To the hands that planted without knowing if they’d harvest—
To the feet that crossed oceans and borders, weary but determined—
To the voices that hummed lullabies and whispered prayers in fading tongues—
To the eyes that watched over kitchens, doorways, and dreams—
To the backs that bent so we might stand tall—

Thank you.

May your memory be a garden where we gather our strength.
May your love continue to echo in the rooms we build.
May your sacrifices bloom in the lives we choose to live with intention, grace, and joy.

You did not labor in vain. I am here. And I remember.

May I live in a way that makes you proud.

Amen.