Tomorrow’s Legacy — Today

What will our children remember?

We all treasure memories. At most of my family gatherings, more than one conversation begins with the expression, “remember when?”

The term is sometimes used to provoke a story, to spur the conversation. But in a deeper way, it’s a tool to help us never forget, to perpetuate the memory. If you don’t keep telling the story, the details get fuzzy – or exaggerated. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard about the root beer on the carpet, or the sledding incident with the dog, or the fishing trip that ended with no fish and a canoe at the bottom of the lake. I know the details, but I want to keep hearing them, so I never forget.

In ancient times, legends were passed on through crude drawings on walls; verbal stories told around the fire and values passed from generation to generation through carefully scripted tradition.

The Bible reminds fathers to teach their children, for the young women to learn from the older women and for the young boys to be taught from their elders.

It’s particularly critical for the sandwich generation – those adults stuck in the middle of two generations. I was there, until both my parents died within 11 months of each other. Suddenly, their children were charged with the family legacy.

Passing it on

We sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by thousands of photos. My sister and I were awed by these collected images from the generations of our family. Mom had trunks and boxes of pictures, stored in shoeboxes, crumbling albums and plastic bags. They were from both sides of the family tree, with many protruding branches. The busy redhead had the best of intentions to organize them, but she simply ran out of days.

And now, there is no one else left to sort them out. We couldn’t just leave it in boxes for our kids, without instructions, without any historical context. It was disorganized, almost hopelessly so. The photo locations, age and bloodlines were all mixed together in a cosmopolitan mix that was almost like a random time machine.

There were lots of pictures of Grandma and Grandpa Rupert on the farm in Lark, North Dakota. They were always smiling, surrounded by horse-drawn farm equipment, covered in dirt and joy. But all of that changed in the 1936, when they put up the farm for auction. No crops. No water. The final photo shows a Chevy pulling a small trailer and the penciled caption, “last day in North Dakota.”

I can’t imagine leaving the life’s work. But they did, trusting God to provide. And He did.

Behind every photo is a story. Some I know, but most are lost to the sands of time, perhaps forever.

Just because it’s old, is it important?

There were pictures of fishing trips and camp meetings, fields in harvest and babies in ornate cradles with lace hats. It was all interesting, but what did we need to keep? Was it right to throw away a 110-year old photograph? Many of the people in the photos we simply didn’t know. Perhaps they were acquaintances or distant family, but someone thought them important enough to photograph and to keep. Is that what memories should be, preserving what someone else felt what was important? Or do I get to choose?

The digital age means that many photos will be lost to scratched compact disks or nonfunctioning hard drives, the smiling faces forever lost to technology.

So what is the legacy that I will preserve for the generations, bottling them up for discovery one day by the curious time travelers? What will we wash away with the spin cycle of time, chalked up to that was yesterday?

The questions are far more numerous than the answers. I hope the memory I give my children, and grandchildren is one of righteousness and truth, one that goes beyond mere pictures or words.

I wonder what they will need to know to survive through their deepest struggle. Will they seek out the memory, and will it be there?

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