The Legacy You Leave

When my father passed away many years ago, my sister and I had the task of sorting through lots of his belongings. Decades of papers, receipts, tools and knickknacks that he had collected over the years were stashed here and there, all over the place. A basement full of unfinished projects. Closets full of boxes. Papers tossed here and there. VHS tapes by the hundreds. I don’t mean to imply that my father was a hoarder or anything. He wasn’t. He was just not the most organized person in the world. My sis and I went from room to room in the house, trying to help my mother figure out what needed to be kept, and what could be discarded. As we opened closet after closet, we found lots of boxes labeled with a single word. In a large marker, my father had written on them one word. The word was “Stuff”.

The truth is he was right. As I sorted through all the papers, I realized that none of these things really mattered. Every piece of paper and trinket we uncovered was something that would fade away in light of eternity. Eventually, these heirlooms would all turn to dust and be forgotten memories. Future generations might see something from his life that our family passed down, but chances are they would not even think twice about the man who was their ancestor. They would never get to know as I had known the heart of a good and godly man, who loved and was loved deeply. They would never experience his loyalty to those he cared about. He would simply be a photograph of someone’s past stashed in a darkened closet somewhere.

An old preacher remarked at a funeral once that, “you will never see a hearse towing a U haul trailer behind it.” And that’s true. You cannot take your “stuff” with you to your eternal home. But it is also true that when we die, all the belongings and possessions we have are left on this earth fall to our family to sort through. Keep or discard. That will be their task. There are items they will want to keep and pass along, for sure. A watch. A piece of furniture. A rifle. A family quilt made in love. But these things are not who we are. They are not us. The trinkets that get handed down are simply the things of dust that will eventually fade into nothingness.

I have been thinking a lot about my legacy, about what I might leave behind to help my children’s children know my heart. I wish they could see the love I have for them, (even though they might not be born yet). I wish they could sit on my lap, listen to me tell my stories, and smile at ramblings of an old man. Would they see all these as wasted moments or rejoice in them as a fruitful life well-lived? Would they learn from my life experiences, and be better, more caring, loving people? Would my legacy help them navigate the wounds of the heart and the trials of daily living? I wish so. With every fiber of who I am I long to tell them everything. I wish that I could be more than just a faded picture hidden in someone’s closet in a box labeled, “stuff”.

Over the past several weeks, people have questioned why I am writing so much. Why write devotions if no one reads them, or even write a book if no one will buy it? Why spend so much energy and time in such a fruitless, non-productive past-time? Why starve instead of trying to support those who depend on you? I am told that it is much better to have a huge inheritance to leave your children. Give them a boost so that they can have a better life. Give them stuff.

But the truth is – these writings are all the legacy I have. The musings of a weary soul. These are the only way I know to leave behind something more than the dust of a covered casket. Perhaps one day my great, great, great grandchild will get curious about the kind of person I was. Perhaps they will make the effort to go rummaging around in a box in closet somewhere and discover these writings. Perhaps they will read them, wondering, trying to find a connection to their past. Perhaps for just an instant, a split second, they will feel my presence coursing through their blood and beating with their heart and realize that the air that I breathe is the same air they are now filling their lungs with. That the struggles they have were the ones I had. That their crisis for purpose was mine as well. Their search for identity was just as real for me as for them. I hope that they will discover my heart. And how, even now as I write these words, that my heart beats for them even though we have never met. Perhaps in some small way they will be better people because of the encounter.

If that happens, then I can live with the fact that eventually the pictures, the writings and the tiny trinkets I leave will become faded memories. I can resign myself that with every passing generation, those images will become weaker and weaker until they are nothing more than the dust of the earth. If only someone down my family line will pause for a moment to reflect and listen to the distant call of a ancestor. If that happens, then I will be more than just a faded photo in a box marked “stuff”. And that my friends, will be the legacy I leave. And for the moment, it will have to be enough.