Heritage Knows No Bounds

Heritage, the dictionary says is (No. 1) - something that comes or belongs to a person by reason of birth, and/or (No. 2) - any property, especially land, that devolves, (or passes on) by right of inheritance.

Our sons and daughters, and our grandchildren and great grandchildren, and so on, will inherit our place of worship: the land, the building, as past generations have already done, and our religion itself.

Heritage is rather connnected to the hip of lineage, which is the descent of family, isn't it?

Let me share with you a profound heritage moment passed on to me by my mother in a simple, small sentence. This moment has returned to me in memory over and over again throughout the course of my life.

It began one cold day in Vermont, when my (unfortunately now ex-) husband and I prepared to welcome home our first new bundle of joy. As my husband climbed into the driver's side of his truck, a very Vermontesque vehicle, a nurse helped me to sort of tumble into the passenger side. Then a second nurse handed me the bundle and wished us luck.

I will never forget the next second, when my husband looked at me, and I looked at him at the same time. He glanced at the bundle and said, "Now what?"

We were not the youngest parents. He was 36 and I was 27. He seemed a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps I was, too, but there was something intangible going on inside me. So I calmly looked at the bundle, and replied, "Oh, I think Mother Nature will kick in." And off we drove to find our parental wings.

Now, these many years later, as I recall that moment, I wonder if there was a little of that heritage-lineage thing already going on, kicking in automatically, like Mother Nature. My own mother had done this seven times, once with two bundles in her lap. From her I certainly learned strength and endurance. And from my dad, who had shared those seven events, I learned positivity and to hold dear a healthy sense of humor, because life, as he puts it, "comes at you from all angles."

This, my own baby, was certainly a new angle.

No, that was not THE profound moment. The profound moment came 14 months after our bundle's arrival. On a December day, I wound down the long, snowy Vermont lane to the stone "highway" and our mailbox. From that tubular container I picked a letter from Mom. I hugged it to my heart all the way back up the lane. My mother and I exchanged letters rather often then, and perhaps we even got to know one another a little better.

As the bundle, now an active 14-month-old, played at my feet, I read Mom's letter. And then came THE profound moment. One sentence grabbed me. My mom wrote, "Have you had Abigail baptized yet?"

I looked down at the bundle. No, Mom, I thought, I haven't done that.

My mate was not a religious man. Having him accompany me to church was rare. But my mother had made me realize this was a rare occasion for all three of us, to give our firstborn her heritage.

And my husband did proudly accompany to church me for his daughter's once in a lifetime baptismal experience.

/End/

Sources: personal experience