She Worshiped. Everywhere.

Mom loved Jesus.

Not in a quiet, keep-it-to-yourself kind of way. In a hands-raised, doesn't-matter-where-I-am kind of way.

At church. At home. In the car. In the grocery store parking lot if the moment called for it.

That same summer that we went zip lining, as part of the family reunion, we had a family picnic in Twin Falls. Extended family gathered on the grass — cousins, kids, people who had known each other for decades. At some point one of the cousins pulled out a guitar and started playing and singing.

Some of those songs were worship songs.

Mom didn't hesitate. Didn't look around to gauge the room. She just worshiped.

Right there. Outside. At a picnic. Surrounded by family — including a good number of her ex-in-laws, who she never stopped claiming as her own. The "ex" part was a technicality as far as she was concerned. They were family. Full stop.

So there she sat, hands lifted, completely at home in the moment.

That was one of the truest things about her.

Her faith wasn't something she put on for church and took off for the rest of the week. It was just... her. Woven in. Present wherever she was.

She worshiped in the park that day the same way she worshiped on Sunday morning.

Like she meant it. Because she did.