Before You Read Another Word — Meet Hootsie

She was modest. A little insecure, if she was being honest. She loved deeply but rarely sought the spotlight — and more often than not, she expected to be overlooked.

She was wrong about that.

My mom passed away recently. The first holiday after she passed is Mother's Day. It felt like the right moment — what better day to launch a living space built around remembering her.

Not an obituary. Not a tribute with dates and accomplishments, though there were plenty of both.

Something different.

I wanted to capture what she actually looked like, living. The moments that made her laugh — hard, from deep down. The adventures she said yes to when most people her age and health would have quietly declined. The faith that she lived — not something she performed on Sundays, but something she carried everywhere, every day, without apology. The way she showed up for people, consistently and without fanfare.

My hope is that the great-grandkids (maybe one day even future generations) who didn't get the opportunity to know her find their way here and discover who she was. That other family members get to know her through the eyes of her friends. That friends, coworkers, and acquaintances find a more complete picture of the woman they knew. That strangers who find mom here feel like they've met someone worth knowing. And most of all — that anyone who finds themselves relating to her finds encouragement and hope in her life.

Her name was Billie Arlene Blue.

She went by Arlene — don't call her Billie, she wouldn't answer. Pure stubbornness, and she was not apologetic about it because she really hated that name being attached to her — and I don't use the word hate lightly.

But many of the people who really knew her — they called her Hootsie.

When her first grandson was born, Arlene was married to Dale — a Native American man whose family used the word Hootsie for "father's mother." Dale taught her grandson Hootsie instead of grandma or grammy. When her youngest grandson came along, he picked it up too — even though for him, she was his mother's mother. Hootsie was just the right name for her.

She loved being called Hootsie. Sought it out. Introduced herself as Hootsie. Lit up when people used it.

So that's what we call her here.

She loved Jesus — not performatively, but genuinely and completely. She loved baseball, animals, adventures, painted nails, and people — especially people.

Have you heard that she:

• Went zip-lining for the first time at 75 — with her shoes duct-taped to her feet.
• Shaved her head to stand with a friend throughout her successful fight with cancer.
• Sat bundled in a sleeping bag at an Army/Navy football game because her grandson was a cadet and that was reason enough.
• She worshiped in a park, at a picnic, surrounded by family like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because for her, it was. All these actions were natural for her.

She was an ex-convict. She spent over twenty years in prison ministry after getting out. She was funny — dry, sharp, and never intentionally mean. She was the person who noticed when you walked into a room alone and made sure you didn't stay that way. And no...this is not 3 truths and a lie.

She was, in the truest sense, a woman well loved.

Not because she was perfect.

Because she was real.

This is a collection of memories of her.

Some are told by me — her daughter. Others come from friends, coworkers, and family members who knew her in ways I didn't, in places I wasn't, during chapters I only heard about secondhand.

 That's intentional.

No single person holds all of someone's story. This collection is built on the belief that the fullest picture of who she was lives in the people she touched — and that those people deserve a place to remember her out loud.

If you knew Hootsie — if she sat next to you at church, worked alongside you, showed up for you in a hard season, made you laugh at the exact right moment, or simply made you feel seen in a room full of strangers —

 Your memory belongs here too.

You are welcome to share your memories in the comments.

You are also welcome — encouraged, even — to write your own piece as a guest author. There is space for you here. Just reach out.

This isn't just my story to tell.

Her name was Arlene.

She was a mom, a grandmother, a friend, a mentor, a teacher, a sister, an aunt, a daughter — and she was Hootsie.

She loved with her whole heart. Her love included but was not limited to: Jesus, baseball, animals, adventures, painted nails, and people — especially people.

She is worth remembering intentionally.

So let's begin.

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