Inheritance

I collect stories of people the way some people collect stamps or hockey cards. All my life I have done this. But there is one story that has captured my imagination more than any other. It is the story of my paternal grandmother. I never knew her; my father never knew her; my aunt and uncle cannot remember her; there is virtually no one left on earth who has any memory of her. Perhaps this is why her story has so captivated me my whole life – the intrigue, the mystery, the urgency to ferret out any details that can be found that tell me of a history that has shaped me despite my knowing so little.

Her name was Sara.

My grandmother died after giving birth to my dad. His siblings were just toddlers at the time and they grew up in a home where her story was not a topic of conversation. For me, however, finding her story has become a bit of a passion and a pet project. In a certain sense, it feels like not knowing her story has somehow denied me of my inheritance. And so, I am doing what I can to scrape together any details of her life I can find, mining relatives minds for any scraps of memory they have of my grandmother or even things people said about her, having knowledgeable people dig through archives, reading historical documents and comparing them to genealogical records an uncle gave me.

It is difficult to describe the anticipation I feel on the brink of a new discovery – looking over the shoulder of the archivist as he scrolls through a microfiche of an old newspaper, reading the one tiny little book recounting the development and disbandment of the settlement where my grandmother grew up and where her father was shot and killed – and the gratitude and elation at finding a new detail. And yet, there is still a sense of dissatisfaction because I still don't know who she was or what she was like. I know facts of her life, but I don't know her.

This week on my way to the archives in Winnipeg, I was wondering about this. I had fully five other grandparents whose stories I haven't investigated with this kind of determination. Why is that? I think perhaps it is because they were part of my story. I knew them all, had experiences with them, talked to them. Our stories were interconnected. I still know people who know their history. It feels like I still have time to find out about them. I took their presence in my life for granted.

And then I was thinking about God's story. Am I investigating that with any passion? Do I feel that same sense of anticipation of finding something new when I read God's story? That sense of urgency to find out about God, that desire to know God personally? What benefits and blessings am I robbing myself of when I limit my relationship with God to the metaphorical hug and kiss I gave my grandparents on our way out the door after having spent the afternoon in their basement or watching their TV? It is too late to know any of my grandparents at any deeper level, to pursue a more intimate relationship with them. But it's not too late with God. And the stakes are higher. Will I do something about that?

I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened

in order that you may know the hope to which [God] has called you,

the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints,

and his incomparably great power for us who believe.

Ephesians 1:18