Legacy

Legacy. Something left behind to be remembered by. A statue. A journal. An object or vision of such power that the life of the person it represents is unmistakable - and totally impactful.

I was thinking of such legacies in the Bible: altars - piles of stones; festivals and holidays. Then I thought of one, maybe unintentional, legacy that I haven't heard preached. The book of Exodus describes God's deliverance of His people from slavery in Egypt through Moses. The last of the "punishments" upon Egypt for not letting His people go was the death of the first-born male.

In order to differentiate the Egyptian household from the Israelite, and to create a legacy to pass forever along the family lines of Israel, the Passover is initiated. One part of the Passover was to take the blood of the slain lamb and paint it on the door posts and top of the frame. This was a sign to the angel that was coming to "pass over" those particular households. You can read the account in Exodus, chapter 12. The Israelites were to hold an annual Passover, teaching their children so as not to let the memory fade from their culture.

Here is where the unintentional(?) legacy comes in. The Israelites had departed, taking all of their belongings (and some given to them by their Egyptian "neighbors"), yet one thing remained: the blood-stained door frames. Who was this for? The Egyptians - to remember the God of Israel by. Not only did the Egyptians have to deal with the loss of their first-born sons, but they had a visual reminder as well.

What happened to those houses of the Israelites? Nothing is mentioned. But imagine being the new owner.

© Emittravel 2012

Everyone Has a Story

My wife and I took a ride from our home in Seven Hill, Ohio to Painesville with the main intention of eating at a distant Waffle House. Half the fun in doing this was the ride itself. We take as many back roads as the GPS will point us to, which brings us through some interesting and lovely visuals.

On the ride we came across an extremely crowded cemetery. We're talking literally standing-room-only due to the lack of space for new graves. One thing struck me: each gravestone represented a life. A family. A story. Each was a monument of silence. And then it hit me: what story am I telling? The bible says we are "living epistles (letters) read of all men".  When people look at me what are they reading? Will anyone remember "reading" it?

I have no children to carry on a legacy. I write a journal with the hopes that my nieces, and eventually their children, will take the time to actually read it. But that's it. I wonder if anyone will be at my bedside during my last moments. What's my story?

What about you? If you haven't, take a moment and think about this. One day you too will be represented by a piece of stone.  What story have you told?

© Emittravel 2011