The Legacy
Legacy is a forgotten word. It’s thrown around now in terms of sororities and fraternities or even with jobs. But its true meaning has, mostly, fallen to the wayside.
Even its denotative meaning doesn’t cover all that it is.
I wonder if the world ever felt a little colder, a little darker to Elisha after Elijah was taken up. Not just because his mentor and friend were gone. But because his example of God’s love and power and presence in it wasn’t there anymore.
My father’s family is pretty wonderful. I’ve used the term legacy of faith often when describing them but tonight those words take on a deeper, richer, and sadder meaning.
My grandpa was one of four brothers. I’ve always thought of them as the patriarchs of the current Orr family. They were all rowdy boys living in Vernon, Texas during the depression. They all started playing football to get out of picking in the fields. They continued to play in college, the same college. They all married and had children. And all raised those children with knowledge of the Word and a love for Jesus. I never knew the oldest two; but I knew my Grandpa. And I knew Rob.
All of these men endured trials and hardships. And all of them continued to love Jesus and their families with uncommon strength. And they became known for it. In many places if you say you’re an Orr, someone’s eyes will light up with recognition. For one reason or another. Over the years, many of us have gone to the same university the four of them attended. It’s changed. And grown. But still is a place that would be dear to their hearts. And all of us have been asked, upon meeting someone, “Orr? Are you related to…?” And the answer to that is always ‘yes’.
Our family has changed and grown too. There are a lot of us now. The new members that marry in have to have a couple of years of grace to get everyone’s names. And it’s made harder, and so much sweeter, by all of the babies that come along every couple of years.
Every year we have a reunion. Every summer. The same weekend every summer. We’ve been going for as long as I can remember. When I got married…no, before I got married, I made sure my love understood how important they were and that we would still be attending them. Not just so that our children could experience that family connected-ness but because I would miss seeing all of my cousins every year.
And that’s how we describe each other. Yes, there’s first and thirds and second once removed and on and on and on. But none of that really matters. Because we’re cousins. We’re family.
And tonight, our family is grieving. Rob, the youngest of the four brothers, the last patriarch, passed away. He was old. And he was ready. The thought of his reunion in heaven with his brothers (including my grandpa) and his parents and his sweet Patsy and all of the family that went before him makes me smile even through the tears.
He was a sweet, kind, genuine man. He was a wonderful woodworker. And a great grandpa as well as a great great-grandpa. Not to mention dad. His “dad-ing” years were pretty much over by the time I came along but I know his sons. So I know the kind of parent he had to have been.
When people have asked me about my family and the greatest thing about having a reunion every year, I talk about how great it is to see everyone but there’s also a tradition that always, always gets in the telling. On Sunday morning, all of us, babies to octogenarians, gather in a room and we worship together. We sing old, beloved hymns. We sing new, favorite songs. We even sing the lullabies that we teach our children, to begin introducing them to the love of Jesus.
Then a few words are spoken.
And then we take communion together. We’ve used Dixie cups and plastic cocktail ones. Traditional communion cups and even hotel glasses. And the bread isn’t always the same either. But that doesn’t matter.
Because we are gathered together. And we are worshiping our Lord.
After the service, someone (for the past several years it’s been Rob) usually talks a little about the family. Sometimes this may ramble on a little but that’s part of the tradition too at this point. And then, as my grandpa started it, we always ask if we want to meet again next summer. Because they, our originators, always wanted it to be a choice, not a burden.
My family has a real history of faith. A legacy of it. When my children were born it was important to me that they get into the hands of their great-grandpa. Not only so he could hold them, these miracle children, but so that he could pray over them. I know that’s not a necessity. I know that legacy is intact without it. But it still made this mama’s heart leap.
But we’re entering a new chapter now. All 77 of us. Our last Elijah has gone up. And the world feels a little colder, a little darker without that last brother in it to go before us lighting the way. It’s up to us now to take up the mantle. To continue to lay the foundation of that road for not only our children, but for all the others that will follow after. So that they can continue walking long after we’re gone. And continue in the work that the Lord has set for them.
Because in the end, that’s what really matters. Not the name. Not the size of the family. Not even our legacy. Oh, even typing that hurts. But it’s the truth. One that I know my Grandpa and Rob and Forrest and Graham would agree with it. Our legacy could fail. There is no power in it. It’s just a name. It doesn’t really matter to the world. But Jesus does. His is more than a name. There in is all the power. And He will never fail.
And because we are in Him we will always be a part of it. Always together. Always worshiping. Always joining together for the Lord’s Supper. Whether that is crammed in a living room or in a conference room in a Hilton with children playing on the floor. Or in the presence of God himself, reunited with our family, beyond the pearly gates.
We love and miss you Rob. And Patsy. And Dub. And Polly. And Forrest. And Norma. And Graham. And Elizabeth. But we’ll be together again. And the singing is going to be great.
