I was exhausted as I wiped the dust from the box I had stored in Daddy’s old barn. Looking at the faded date on the outside, I could not imagine what it contained that I had neither missed or needed in twenty years. Even though I was totally exhausted, I could not help but open the lid with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning. I blamed my tired state when I found myself pretending that some treasure was waiting to be discovered and then laughed at my silly behavior. But the laughter quieted as I found myself staring at layers of my childhood packed neatly away in the old cardboard box. My favorite doll. Kindergarten pictures of a shy chubby girl. The first book I ever received as a gift. Baby shoes. I felt as if a movie of my childhood was playing in my head as I removed each item from the box. And then I saw it and my breath caught in my throat. How could I ever forget my grandmother’s old zippered Bible? I just sat and stared at it for a while, afraid to blink for fear that it might disappear. I felt a tear on my cheek as I removed it gently from its home. Its better days well behind it, a safety-pin now substituted for the zipper pull, the once shiny red gilded pages were faded, and the binding was separating as a result of age and use.
I sat in silence and cradled the Bible to my heart and wept. I wept for a woman who passed away when I was only eight but I still remember every detail of her face and her love for me. I wept because I realized in that moment that I was not the kind of woman that she had been. When my son was growing up, he never saw me pray or read the Bible. Although it is true that I was a good mother in many ways, he never saw me walking through a flower garden praying and talking to God. He was never subjected to watching Oral Roberts every single week day at 10 am. Believe me, if you were in her house when Oral Roberts came on the television, you not only watched it but you were quiet and still while doing so. And if you were in her home when a storm came up, you were told to be quiet and “respect God’s handiwork.” She was a fierce mix of Cherokee, discipline, strength, faith, grace, and abundant love. That is how I remember her. She was a godly legacy in my life. I realize now she was sowing a seed. I might have taken a far different path than she had hoped but the seed was always there . . . always growing.
As I lay the Bible aside, I wondered how I would be remembered when I am no longer here on earth. What seeds am I now sowing in life? In my son’s life? What am I presently doing to bring glory and honor to God? Am I walking out my purpose? Will my legacy be one of a dedicated holy life of compassion and selfless generosity, obedience, and helping people to know the love of Christ? What kind of life will my grandchildren and hopefully great-grandchildren be reading about in the tattered pages of my journals one day? Hopefully, they will read of a well-worn life of faith, battles lost, battles won, and the enduring love of a Savior that walked with me through all of it.
What are you leaving behind, my precious friend? It is never too late to sow that seed.