A Treasure and a Tree

I found it in the back of a closet — a smashed box, weathered with age, that had clearly traveled through attics and storage rooms long before it reached me. Inside were old letters and photographs, and with them, a branch of my family tree I hadn't visited in years.

The faces gazed up at me from over a century ago. The inscriptions on the backs of a few photographs noted the year, the occasion,  a 1910, Sunday School picnic, and the names of my great-aunts and grandmother. They were young girls in white frocks with hand-crocheted lace and enormous bows in their hair. 

 Smiling up at me from across the years were more of my people. Some were attending a missionary conference, others a church convention, all sporting their most stylish hats and Sunday best. There were snapshots of my great-aunts—they were the church ladies serving in the fellowship halls for a pie social or potluck. 

My people, across the years, have been about Kingdom work. 

There were images of barrel-chested Swedes in overalls squinting against the sun as they posed with their team of workhorses. There were women in print dresses toting bundles of garden vegetables, pails of milk, or a basket of eggs.

These were men and women who carved farms out of the untamed wilderness and built tightly-knit communities on the unforgiving prairies. They were part of my heritage, part of my story, tightly woven into the cloth from which I was cut.

Among the photos were those of my grandpa, as a dapper young minister sporting his pencil moustache and Panama hat. He was a man of Scripture, prayer, and faith. 

 I found photos of my dad grinning across the years, with his shock of wavy dark hair and characteristic mischievous smile. Dad followed the well-marked path laid out for him by Grandpa. My dad, too, was devoted to Scripture, prayer, and kingdom work.

As I traced this branch of my family tree down to its very roots on the Minnesota prairie, I was humbled and grateful to rise from such stock: stalwart pioneers, people of faith, Scripture, and prayer. 

The fact that I could sit on the floor, tracing my godly heritage from over a century of faithful men and women, up through the years, to the familiar faces of my grandpa and my dad, is nothing short of astounding. It did not happen by accident. 

It happened because those men in bowler hats and bushy moustaches cared enough about the things of God to teach their children the trustworthy deeds of the Lord, build a church, form a Sunday School and host a picnic on their farm. My great aunts and grandmother were among the children who, no doubt, heard the gospel in that Sunday School. Those burly men, stuffed into their suits and bow ties, cared enough to faithfully pass their faith along generation after generation.

Though a century removed, I am a beneficiary of their faithfulness. I grew up in a home where Scripture, prayer, and the things of God were commonplace. From the homestead on the Minnesota plains through years of hard work close to the land, through the Great Depression and two world wars, this rugged band of Swedes pressed on in faith and taught their children the trustworthy deeds of the Lord. 

I wonder why this stuns me, because God promised His steadfast love to a thousand generations of those who love Him. 

“Know therefore that the Lord your God is God, the faithful God who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments, to a thousand generations…” Deuteronomy 7:9

As I sat on the floor with that box of photos and letters in my lap, a story rose from it. It was the story of faith, love of Scripture, and prayer passed from one generation to the next. It was the story of ordinary, imperfect people who chose faithfulness and God’s ways for over a hundred years. 

I doubt they thought about their legacy each day. I doubt they ever contemplated one of their granddaughters sitting on the floor over a century later, listening to the silent story arising from these photos. 

Their faithfulness was built day by day, week after week, planting season upon harvest. It was built the same way faithfulness is built today. It is built by small decisions, daily choices, and practices that set the pattern of life. 

That afternoon, I traced that massive branch in my family tree and found its roots in the very God who anchors me. Like them, I am simply an ordinary and wildly imperfect person, yet redeemed by the same God they served. As I make a similar commitment to daily faithfulness in the small things, I too can leave a massive legacy of faithfulness that stretches well into the years to come. 

There will be a day when those yet unborn will encounter their own version of this smashed box of photos. When it is my face gazing up across the years, may the silent story told in photos be one of God’s faithfulness. May it tell of God’s power at work in the life of a plain farm girl who chose daily faithfulness for a lifetime. As they trace this strong branch in their family tree down to its very roots, I pray they, too, will find the same God that anchors them, is the same God who held me fast. May they decide to follow the well-lit path my life lays before them and say along with the psalmist: 

“I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings from of old, things we have heard and known, that our fathers told us. We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might, and the wonders he has done...which he commanded our fathers to teach to their children, that the next generation might know them, the children yet unborn, and arise and tell them to their children, so that they should set their hope in God and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments…” Psalm 78:2-7