My wedding ring went to the shop a few weeks ago. It just needed a small repair, but it was going to take up to a month, and I didn't want to be without a ring for that long. I'm pretty proud of the man whose name I share and I'd prefer the whole world knows I belong to him, which meant I needed to rummage around in a closet and find my grandmother's ring to wear in the meantime.
My grandmother's ring. The ring I used to watch her twist around and around her finger. The ring she would let me try on when I played "wedding." The ring she left for me in a box lined with blue velvet, my name written in her wild cursive on a torn piece of notebook paper and stuffed in the lid. My grandmother's ring.
By the time I inherited it, I was much more mature than the little girl who used to pretend she was getting married. I was in fact married with a ring of my own. I also thought it was a little funny looking, not trendy at all. I put it in a safe place and didn't think about it again.
But, something happened when I took it out of the box lined with blue velvet. It wasn't funny looking at all. In fact, it was a tad bit trendy. And what's more, it was beautiful. It was still small and worn and not a bit shiny. But, it was beautiful. Because it was hers.
And for the last few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her ring on my hand. Staring and remembering. My grandmother has been gone for fifteen years, but I can still hear her laugh when she told one of her funny stories. I can still taste her cherry cheese pie. I can still smell her powder. I can still see that ring, twisting round and round on her finger.
Today, I got the call that my own ring is repaired and ready for me to pick up. I'll be glad to see it on my finger again. But, I'll put my grandmother's ring away differently this time. Because the older I get and the more I stand in one place and feel time rushing past me at a rate I can't control, the more I treasure my memories and the people I thought would be in my life forever, but rushed right past me to a place I can't see.
So the memories in a box lined with blue velvet will be waiting. Maybe for my daughter. Maybe a granddaughter. But, they'll be waiting. For someone to hear the stories of the laugh and the cherry pie and the powder and the ring. The ring twisting round and round and round.
I recently read a couple of lines that were written as a side note, but impacted me as if they were the primary message. Tucked away treasures, hidden, yet full of potential to change hearts that take the time to ponder.
They were two small sentences from an author named Mark Batterson in his book, All In. "[The life I live] is an answer to the prayers my father-in-law prayed for me. His prayers did not die when he did."
And there it is. Such a profoundly startling truth. And such a deeply moving one.
When I close my eyes and think of the people in my life who I know have prayed for me over my lifetime, and not just said a sentence or two, but repeatedly approached the throne of Heaven on my behalf, I immediately see my grandparents. As a child from a blended family, I have had the honor of having three sets of grandparents to speak into my raising. And all of them prayed.
Two grandmothers are still with me, all the rest of that generation are gone. But, their prayers remain.
Still effective. Still reaping.
I once stood innocently in the produce aisle at the grocery store, putting my entire concentration into the choosing of carrots when a man walked behind me. I never saw him, but I smelled him. And his cologne was the one my grandfather wore. I don't even know the name of it, but I know the smell, and I instantly found my face wet with tears. I have them in my eyes right now just writing that sentence, just remembering the smell of a tall man who loved to laugh, used big words, fed my infant son his first taste of ice cream without thinking to ask the mother, and walked several miles every morning. And prayed.
A man who prayed for his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. Every single day.
And I'm so grateful that his prayers for me and for my family are still bringing the fragrance of remembrance into the presence of God himself.
I often wonder if my husband and I serve in the same area that my grandfather pastored in because God thinks generationally. But, now, I also wonder if we are not here as God's way of answering my grandfather's prayers that are still rising, the ones that must have so often been prayed for this land and for its people.
Scripture says no word from God lacks power (Luke 1:37), and I'm coming to realize that when His word is in our mouths, our words are never without power either.
Nothing can stop the power of God. Certainly not death. This means that the prayers I pray today, the words and truths of God that I declare with faith, will continue on after I am gone. They will become their own fragrances, ones that rise again and again. They will find their way into the halls and rooms of Heaven and into the presence of the One who loves to say Amen to His words spoken by His children. It also means that I can give a gift to my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren. I can leave a treasure for my church, my city, my nation. I can build a storehouse of blessing.
My prayers. They will not die when I die. They will live, and bring life.
Something special has been happening in our house the last few weeks. We've been remodeling our precious girl's bedroom. Out with the old, and in with....the older. My daughter now has a bedroom full of "vintage" furniture. And it's hard to admit it's vintage...because it's my childhood furniture, and what does that make me?
My parents recently moved into a new home, just blocks away from us now instead of a forty-five minute drive. And the move meant a downsize from three bedrooms to two. A couple of days into packing, Mom called and asked if we wanted my old bedroom furniture. I didn't hesitate to say yes. No, we didn't really have room for it. But yes, I couldn't wait to make the room for something so special.
I can remember going with my parents to pick up that very furniture set when I was about six years old. It was already "vintage" then, a hand-me-down from my mom's aunt and uncle. Their last "little girl" had just gotten married and moved away, and they were doing some downsizing of their own.
So, home the furniture came with us. It was white. And feminine. And full of drawers for stowing away all my treasures.
And it was my furniture from then on, right on through my high school years. And then my sister's after that.
My nine year old was thrilled when we brought it home for her, even more so when I showed her my "secret cubby hole" in the desk where I stored my diary. For the last week, she's been a faithful diary writer, determined to follow in my footsteps.
And when I look at that somewhat shabby furniture now, all squeezed into my daughter's room, I can't help picturing all the years of girls it has known.
Girls getting ready in the morning in front of that large dresser mirror.
Girls working through math problems at that desk.
Girls talking on the phone with their feet propped up on that nightstand.
And even while I look at a black haired girl bent over the desk today, I can picture another generation down the road, where it might be my granddaughter who's hiding her diary in the cubby hole.
Beaten up furniture. Every scratch with a story. Every drawer holding treasures of memory.
Sometimes old is better than new.
Don't you see that children are God’s best gift?
the fruit of the womb his generous legacy?
Like a warrior’s fistful of arrows
are the children of a vigorous youth.
Oh, how blessed are you parents,
with your quivers full of children!
Your enemies don’t stand a chance against you;
you’ll sweep them right off your doorstep.
- Psalms 127:3-5, The Message Bible
My newest nephew was born yesterday. It's probably the last one on this side of the family, which made the experience of holding that new bundle of love especially poignant.
A generation of children have been born to me and my siblings.
A generation of grandchildren have been added to my parents' family tree.
A quiver full of arrows flying out into the world, bringing the Kingdom to hungry hearts.
Oh, the privilege of being a link in the chain. From one generation to the next. Ceilings becoming floors and batons being passed right down the track to the finish line.
The sacred privilege of learning from the ones who came before, adding to it measure upon measure, and investing it into the ones who come after.
Let not my heart take it for granted.
