What Will You Remember of Me?

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?

First Impressions

I’ll be honest; I didn’t have the best reaction when I found out that my wife and I were going to have a baby. She broke the news to me while on vacation in a hotel outside of Cincinnati. When she told me, I spent an hour shut up alone in the hotel bathroom listening to a Reds-Nationals game through the flimsy door while dealing with my conflicted emotions. Not the greatest start to fatherhood. I’d like to think that I’ve grown a bit since then. I hope. Once I’d gathered myself and wrestled my emotions, there was one thing that came to my mind; a vision really: I imagined myself hiking with my child; pointing out the animals and natural features to their wild-eyed wonder. It was that image that helped me push past the fear and doubt that plagued our pregnancy.

My daughter, now nearly two, surprised me last Friday night. I had just persevered through another work week, and pushed past a disappointing set of circumstances. The summer had faded into autumn a day before as the temperature had dropped and the scent of fall was in the air. I needed to hike. I needed to get out; to get lost; to be surrounded by a world larger than myself. So I packed up my things and as I was walking out the door my daughter came up to me.

“Hiking,” she said in her sweet, musical voice, “I hiking.” I told her that she needed to stay and eat dinner and that daddy was going to be back real soon. She didn’t take well to that notion. She began whining, saying “I want go hiking.” My wife and I just gave each other bemused glances. My daughter went downstairs and began tugging at my backpacking equipment. In the end I managed to convince her that she needed to stay and eat. I promised that we would go hiking tomorrow and with that I was off.

True to my word, I waited anxiously for her to wake from her nap the next day. Once awake, I packed some goldfish, a sippy cup, and tossed her backpack into my truck.

I wish I could see things anew through my daughter’s eyes. I wish I could understand the wonder with which she experiences things that I have known for nearly thirty years. I listened as she mimicked the cry of the Blue Jay perched high atop the skeleton of an ancient oak. She laughed uproariously as I franticly tried to shake myself free of a spider that had climbed up my arm. I saw the joy in her eyes as she tried to count the ducks resting on the surface of the impounded stream. “One, two, five…” I heard her protests when I tried to walk away before she had finished counting (which is kind of funny since she can only count to ten). I wish desperately that I could find within myself the joy that seems to be brimming in her. So much of the anxiety and frustration I experience on a daily basis is born from a deficiency of joy. My daughter schools me. I need to hold my life with open hands; to view the world with the eyes of wisdom but also to view the world with the freshness of a child. Let me have the veil of cynicism removed to see the mystery of the world anew.