Legacy is a funny thing.
Eliza Williams never volunteered her time, never read a book on her own, never got to fully experience childhood. But others are providing thousands of hours of service, building small libraries and celebrating life in her honor.
When she was just 2 years old, she began to slip backward developmentally and the losses started piling up: Walking, talking and sight were among the abilities taken from her early by a genetic disease called metachromatic leukodystrophy.
What she was left with led directly to what she left behind when she died earlier this month at the tender age of 10.
MLD was a fierce and cruel fire that swept through the Williams' St. George household. But it wasn't strong enough to slow the love her mom and dad, Nikki and Callahan Williams, had for her. They never stopped taking her out into the world and inviting the world inside their home to love the little girl who often resembled a fairy tale princess, spellbound, waiting for the right moment to awaken.
They took her to church and school and wherever else they went, chatting with her and reading to her and cuddling her and assuring her that she was loved. They dressed her tenderly and brushed her long hair and Callahan carried on chatty conversations with her as he painted her tiny fingernails with the burgundy or pink polish he'd selected for the day.
They knew she probably wouldn't have many birthdays, so they threw monthly birthday parties for her, inviting neighbors and friends in to chat and play, creating a tapestry of sound and sensory stimulation and personal connection that MLD was powerless to weaken. Even small children were comfortable enough to tell Eliza about their day and stroke her cheek.
Have you ever wondered what you'd do if the worst thing you could imagine happened?
When it happened to them, Callahan and Nikki took Eliza out in soft rains so she could feel it on her face. They dipped her toes in the ocean. They blew bubbles that kissed her nose. Callahan took her to a daddy-daughter dance and swirled with her in his arms. And if someone stared, they took the time to put that person at ease, not resentful, but willing to educate the curious.
They built libraries in honor of the little girl who loved to be read to and held: Dozens of Eliza's Libraries scattered throughout communities, in waiting rooms and clinics, the books provided by friends and strangers alike. At her services last week, people were encouraged to donate a children's book.
They invited friends and strangers to do something nice or worthwhile or personally challenging to honor the girl who could do nothing herself but meant everything to those around her. On Christmas morning, before they opened any gifts, they held her tight and read letters detailing acts of service from around the country, all done in Eliza's name.
In the church where those who loved her gathered to say their goodbyes, a flower bouquet contained her favorite books. The walls were lined with letters from people who wanted to say how much they'd been touched by her too-brief, challenging journey and the grace with which her family, which now includes a little sister, sallied forth.
I met the Williams family when I did a story about MLD not long after Eliza was diagnosed. I was not planning to count the family among my friends, but there's a magnetism I found irresistible. My husband and daughters love them, too.
The girls and I were talking about the unexpected lessons — and blessings — of knowing Eliza. It's quite a list: Patience, endurance and love are the most obvious, along with resilience, optimism, hope and the joy of helping others.
I'd be proud to leave so much behind.
Email: lois@deseretnews.com, Twitter: Loisco