Can you hear her prayers, for her seven children and many more grands? She’s been praying for them for years. They both have, with their Bibles strewn about the coffee tables and reading areas. Pages worn, edges tattered with love. Their crooked fingers know just where to turn when in need. That’s the legacy of these two; my grandparents.
Autumn graced the pages of the calendar and the cool crisp air grounded me as we visited their home. We woke up to snow, a fresh clean blanket covering the land. My Grandpa awakes first and gathers his coffee, toast and jam. Slips on the tennis shoes to retrieve the day’s paper. Nothing’s changed in the last 20 years and I appreciate that in this season that I’m walking through. It’s the consistency of home that speaks to my heart.
After the dinner dishes have been cleared and the pie has been served, we play a game around the heart of the kitchen. As I watch my kids enjoy the same entertainment I did as a kid, my heart is full again. These are the things that mean the most to us.If Grandpa meets Jesus anytime soon, I will miss him. But my heart will also rejoice in the homecoming he will have and the abundance of love he will feel.
My husband and I sit around the table, gleaning wisdom from them. We ask hows and whys and more. It’s in the presence of that legacy that you feel the most humble. Half of my life has surely been lived, and I hope to have one half left. I don’t want to waste it.
And then the conversation takes a turn and we recite to my Grandpa all of his acts of love that we are so grateful for. His memory is soft and can’t recall and so we lovingly remind him how he loved us. We tell his story to him. How he always greeted us with a “morning glory” no matter the day. I recounted how he drove me to college, jammed into a mini car and unpacked my belongings with a servant’s heart. And as we tell him about his life, and he shakes his head as if to say he can’t quite remember, I realize that this is what legacy is.
To have your life told back to you by others.
We serve, we offer our time, our money, a listening ear and it makes a difference. People remember. We count it as insignificant at the time, but at the end of our life, how many stories will be told back to us? If my memory ever fails me, I hope that the story that is told back to me by my children is one of love.