This evening I indulged in a pleasure that I wish were more
a part of my regular existence: I finished my evening sitting in front of a
crackling fire in my fireplace. With my feet warming on a stool, my eyes pass
over the bookshelves lining the walls. My attention is drawn to a simple wood
carving of a bald eagle. Having just seen this very animal earlier in the day I
am aware of the many ways in which the carving differs from the real thing. The
eye is too perfectly round. The beak too curved. One of its talons is twisted
unnaturally. Its feet rest upon a of piece driftwood which has been broken and
hastily reassembled.
Yet the eagle sits upon my shelf overlooking the expanse of
my living room not for its perfection but for its creator. The figure was
carved by my grandfather, now departed. It is for that reason that this figure
is more than a sum of its parts. It remains a physical memory of his life and
effort. As I ponder these things I am reminded of how few tokens of his life I
possess. In fact, my memories of his life are far fewer that I would like. I
can already feel my own memories of him slipping into the fog of history. What
do I truly have that encapsulates this man’s life? What will be remembered of
him?
My thoughts, as if bidden by an unseen oarsman are swiftly
swept onto my own existence. What will be remembered of me? It is the question
that plagues Man with a doggedness only equaled by the certainty of his own
mortality. Our days are like a vapor. Our flesh is like grass. Here today and
gone tomorrow. What will become of us? What will become of me?
Even in the limited sphere of my life I ponder what of me
will remain. My daughter, now nearly two, what would she remember of me if I
were to vanish from this earth? Would I be a mere carving on the mantelpiece to
her? Would she remember the way I yelled at her when she poured a drink on the
floor? Would she remember the times I was too occupied by some pointless news
story to sit down and play with her? Would she remember my worries and
anxieties; the way the weaknesses and sins of my past haunted me? What of my
doubts and fear? My grumbling and complaining? What memories am I making for
her? What kind of legacy am I leaving?
Paul sets a mighty example for us when he writes to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say
rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be
anxious for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with
thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God,
which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in
Christ Jesus.”
Will this be my legacy? Will I be known by my trust in the
Lord or by my doubting? How am I building my legacy? On the presupposition of
my own efforts? Or am I building it upon the character of the Lord? My own
efforts will fail. I should know that by now. My own projects, as successful as
they might seem, are but a passing wind, lost very quickly to the swiftness of
time. What will remain? The Lord only. My only legacy is in Him and in my trust
in Him. Will my daughter see that in me? Will she in my life the majesty of my
Creator? Could she discern from the memory of me the character of God? As I
rest my eyes this night, the question resonates: what will she remember of me?
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