The Legacy of Story
Our granddaughters are spending a week with us; one of our most precious weeks each year. Having them to ourselves for a few days gives us time to breathe in the same air, dance to the same rhythm, to speak that special language of grandparent to grandchild. Each year, the time is sweeter still, maybe because I realize there will come a year when spending time with “the grandparents” won’t be so special anymore. I’m hoping it won’t be so, but one never knows. What I do know is that their childhood is flying by even faster than the childhoods of my own daughters, and I’m greedy to grab onto each treasured experience, to savor the moments.
One thing that has made this particular stay with us unique has been the telling of stories. At 11 and nearly 9 years of age, the girls are not only curious about how to bake bread, or make spaghetti sauce from scratch, or sew a patchwork pillow, but they are full of questions: questions about my parents, my husband’s parents. Questions about their mother growing up, their aunt, where we went and what we did for vacation. Questions about great-grandparents - where they came from, what they did. I find myself sharing the legends of our family, stories that bring smiles, or giggles, or even all-out guffaws.
I remember asking my own maternal grandmother about her life; her move to the United States from Canada, a life to be remade in a new country with a new language, without a mother who’d died before they left their home. I remember asking my father’s mother about her own immigration to the United States— their slinking across the border in the middle of the night due to a family crisis; about leaving everything they had behind to start a new life with 11 children and no work, no housing - nothing but hopes and dreams. I remember stories of their holidays and vacations, of my mom growing up in a house of 10 kids, her father who worked nights in the mills of Manchester NH, of vacations in Canada and trips to the mountains, picnics and swimming at lakes and local ponds. I heard stories of growing up in the Depression, of scrimping and saving, but also of delight in penny candy, or a new bicycle, or a new dress. There were lots of stories, a weaving of legacy and tradition and family identity that became a precious commodity for my own identity as I grew into adulthood and independence.
Being a grandparent carries a few responsibilities:
We are called to love our grandkids unconditionally, which for most grandparents I know, comes effortlessly, joyfully. There is no struggle to watching our grandchildren grow - grow in knowledge and understanding, in compassion and love; watching them discover new things and new experiences with awe and wonder.
We are called, too, to accept them for who they are, and leave the parenting to their parents. My husband and I are careful never to contradict any rules or expectations their parents set out for their children, but I think we are also called to extend a little more grace, a bit more mercy; to overlook their missteps and mistakes whenever we can. Being a grandparent provides a space for a child to simply be, to be loved and cherished without thought for the normal expectations of their daily life at home.
As Christians, we are also called to pray for them. Just as we prayed for our daughters throughout their childhood, my husband and I pray for our grandchildren, each by name, every day. We pray for their current struggles, whether school, or friends or life issues. We pray for their futures, that they will be safe and protected and that they will find their passion and calling, and become individuals with a strong sense of self - and a stronger sense of God.
I also believe we have an additional responsibility, one that their parents cannot always fulfill; and that is the passing on of family legacy. I think that giving a child a unique sense of their personal family history is a precious gift they richly deserve. My own grandchildren have great-great grandparents who were immigrants from Canada, but also ancestors who came from Welsh-English settlers who arrived by ship in the late 1600’s, landing in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Relatives who were carpenters and roofers, postmen and mill workers, doctors, nurses and teachers; who served in the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines; one who was present at Iwo Jima in the Pacific Theater during WWII. Relatives who were investment bankers and professors, and presidents of their college class; authors and artists; priests and nuns. Relatives from Native American parentage, or German, French, English, Welch, Scottish, Irish - a veritable tapestry of rich heritage that renders them far richer for the breadth of their backgrounds; the depth of their unconscious belonging.
My grandchildren have such wealth in terms of legacy; it needs to be passed on. It needs to be celebrated, acknowledged and assimilated. We truly are the sum of all who’ve gone before. Each thread of their wider family story weaves for them a tapestry of those that went before, conquering hardships, or perhaps succumbing to them - each story a legacy of strength, perseverance, courage, dedication, love. Not all the stories are positive; our families have had a fair share of addiction and loss; of mental and physical illness; of fortunes gained and lost; of heartaches and sorrows as well as joy and accomplishment.
But that’s the point, isn’t it? To share the family stories that teach our next generation that life is good, but sometimes hard; that life is rewarding, though sometimes it comes at a cost; that life is always worth the love that is shared, given, received.
The stories of those who’ve gone before deserve to be shared with our grandchildren. They are our most precious legacy. In them, and in their understanding of who they are and where they came from lies the hope and destiny of their future. Of our future.
The stories of legacy are precious. Remember them, share them, and see the wonder in those who are coming next.