Legacy

My grandmother (on my dad's side) is in her final days. I have mixed emotions as I reflect on it.

On the one hand, I'm sad because it's my Grandma...my own flesh and blood. A quarter of me is her. Without her, there wouldn't be a me. It's sad to think that I won't see her again.

On the other hand, she's lived a long and full life. She's in pain, and she lost her husband (my grandfather) over a decade ago. To think that she'll be freed from pain and reunited with Grandpa, her husband of 49 years before his passing, is a beautiful thought.

But mostly, I think of the legacy she leaves behind. To be honest, I didn't see her all that often and wasn't that close with her. But the impact her life has made is obvious. She and Grandpa had 9 kids and over 30 grandchildren, along with some great grandchildren so far, and I'm sure more to come. I can't even remember the names of all my cousins. Never could, even as a kid when there were fewer and I saw them more often.

Among her kids and grandkids are pastors, people who've gone on missions trips, and others, like myself, who are devoted to serving God in whatever capacity he's called them to. She didn't just have a lot of descendants—she passed on her faith to them. And they've continued to pass it on. Her life, even as it fades away, will live on through all these people touching more and more lives with God's love. The butterfly effect.

I have this image of her standing before God in heaven with Grandpa, with pictures surrounding them of all these faith-filled lives left in their legacy. That's what brings tears to my eyes. To think of the difference one person (or two) can make to leave their mark on this earth.

Now, I'm still firm in my desire not to have children. But I still want to leave that kind of legacy. And I believe that I can, thanks to this wonderful place God has called me to work. As I edit curriculum to help children, youth, and adults grow in their relationship with Jesus, I'm touching lives, too. Not in as personal a way, but in the way God has called me to.

I hope that when I'm the one about to stand before God, there will be many images of lives he's changed through my work, of a legacy of faith I've left behind.

"I want to leave a legacy 

How will they remember me?
Did I choose to love?

Did I point to You enough
To make a mark on things?

I want to leave an offering
A child of mercy and grace who blessed your name unapologetically
And leave that kind of legacy."

- Nichole Nordeman

The End

Here's something that's captured my attention: John 11:4. Upon hearing that his friend Lazarus is sick, Jesus tells his disciples, "This sickness will not end in death."

The key word being end. Because it does result in death, for a few days.

And most of the time, death is the end. So what the disciples understood, then, was probably more like, "Lazarus won't die." You've got to wonder what the disciples thought, then, when Jesus later tells then Lazarus is dead. What did that do to their faith? Did they think he was a fraud? Did they think he just didn't really know what was going to happen? He told them he was going there to wake Lazarus up, but the sleeping metaphor had already confused them. And Thomas said they should go die with him...so perhaps they just thought death was a metaphor. But what about when they got to Bethany and found out he really was dead? What was going on in their heads?

Well, we just don't know. But I can tell you that trials much less final than death often feel like the end of the world to me. So often I lose sight of hope, of the future, of God's promises. So often I don't see how they could possibly be true. How could it possibly be true that Lazarus' sickness wouldn't end in death, when here he was, dead? How could it be that God is with me when sometimes, I just don't feel like he is? How can God really be victorious over Satan when sometimes his temptations reign so strongly in my life? How can God make the impossible possible when it really feels like the end of the story?

Lazarus' story reminds us that sometimes, what we think is the end is only the middle of the story. And the real end? Just what I recently reflected on in Philippians 3: "Our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, Christ Jesus our Lord."

This trial, this struggle, this temptation: it's not the end. It's just the middle of a story with a fabulous, glorious ending, already written by the God of impossibilities.

Finishing Well

Lately I've been thinking about finishing well in the faith. I spent June reflecting on Philippians 3 and things like this stuck out to me: "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so somehow to attain the resurrection from the dead."

And this one: "I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."

And then I launched into Ephesians yesterday and was struck by the fact that God has given me "every spiritual blessing."

After reflecting on that one, I kept thinking of the song "Give Me Jesus" by Fernando Ortega. I downloaded it and have been listening to it a lot.

So often my mind is consumed by "earthly things" as Philippians 3 calls them. But when it comes down to it, Jesus is every spiritual blessing I need. I am so complete in him. I just want to run toward him, to know him, to "gain Christ and be found in him." To be more like him. To reflect him to everyone around me.

I don't mean to sound cheesy. I'm just more in love with Jesus than ever. The leader of my DivorceCare group talked about how post-divorce was such a rich, sweet time for her faith...and that is so true for me, too.

Tonight I was listening to "Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus)" by Chris Rice, and aside from the contradiction in the title (I never understood how he can call it untitled and then put a title in parentheses), I was near tears as he sang the last verse:

And with your final heartbeat

Kiss the world goodbye,

And go in peace, and laugh on glory's side

And fly to Jesus

Fly to Jesus

Fly to Jesus and live

It made me think of this assignment I had in college to write a biography about a Christian role model. The rule was they had to be dead or "close to dead" so that we knew they finished well.

This made me think about Asa (I know, my mind is quite the path to follow), a king in the Bible (1 Kings 15; 2 Chronicles 14) who loved and honored God almost his whole life. The Bible says his heart was "fully committed to the Lord all his life."

Except then in the 36th year of his reign, a battle is looming and he makes a treaty with another king instead of relying on God. In his 39th year he falls ill and the Bible says he did not seek help from the Lord, but only from his physicians. Two years later, he was dead. A lifetime of following God. 5 years of turning aside, and that's how he went out. Asa didn't finish well.

But someday on my deathbed, whether that's tomorrow or in 70 years, I want to be singing "Just give me Jesus." I want to fly to Jesus. I want to always be as in love with him as I am right this moment. And in between now and then, I don't want to let anything distract me from loving and honoring him.

Dandelions

When Buttercup died, there were certain things I had to hold on to. A ceramic paw print. Her collar. Her favorite toys. Some clumps of her fur. Her clothes. But it struck me the other day that when I die, no one else will probably care to keep any of those things. Even her ashes and pictures will probably be thrown away after I'm gone. Which made me sad.

And then I started thinking about how quickly people are forgotten, too. All it takes is one or two generations to be completely forgotten. Unless you were really super famous or did something amazing (or horrendous) for mankind.

Then I thought about these verses in Psalm 103: "As for man, his days are like grass. He flourishes like a flower of the field. The wind blows over it, and it is gone; its place remembers it no longer."

All pretty depressing stuff, huh? We're so finite. And even in the context of God's everlasting love (which the Psalm continues about), it's sad to think that 100 years from now no one will know or care who I was.

But then I thought about that flower metaphor from the Psalm some more. And I thought about dandelions. Which aren't even really flowers, they're weeds...but indulge me. I thought about what happens when the wind blows over them...they are gone. But they've made an impact. The seeds that blow away will go on to produce more dandelions. And even though the little girl who picks those new dandelions and makes a bouquet for her mother won't have any idea where the seeds for that flower originated, the dandelion that blew away made its mark on this world.

That's when I realized I'm OK if 100 years from now, no one knows or cares about my name. As long as 100 years from now, something about the way I lived my life helped make the future a better place.

What NOT to Say When Someone Loses a Pet

When I lost Buttercup, I heard some of the same well-meaning but gut-wrenching "condolences" my uncle had complained about upon the loss of his dog. Those without their own pets may not understand how deep this loss feels. So, when offering comfort to someone who has lost a pet, consider whether you would speak the same words to someone who just lost a human loved one.

Would you say to someone who just lost a grandparent: "At least she lived a nice long life"? You shouldn't - so don't say it to someone who lost a pet. No matter how old the pet was, it doesn't change the fact that the person is grieving a great loss.

Would you say to someone who just lost a parent: "At least you have another one"? Of course not. But I heard this one all the time. Yes, I appreciated having Peanut and Biscuit around when I lost Butters. But they weren't the same as having her. And sometimes, it made it harder. Like when I had to scoop their dinner, it was always a reminder that I was only scooping two bowls now. Or how Peanut got super sad when I watched videos of Buttercup, so I had to sneak it without her noticing.

Would you say to someone who just lost a child: "Are you going to have another one?" It's true, eventually we who have lost pets will probably get another one. But I read recently that getting a new pet just after the loss of one is usually a bad idea, because you expect it to fill the void and be just like the pet you lost. You need time to grieve so you aren't getting another pet just to fill the hole. For someone to imply that another pet could just fill that role really hurts.

Instead of saying things like the above, simply say you're sorry to hear about the loss. Ask how the person is doing. Be a listening ear if the person wants to talk about it. And consider your context before asking questions. For instance, I asked my co-workers not to talk to me about Buttercup because I didn't want to cry at work, and I was having a hard time holding it in as it was. I appreciated that by-and-large, my co-workers respected those wishes.