here's to legacy

In my difficulties sleeping this week, I buried myself in everything I could from the Lord. After I finished singing some old school camp songs, I took my pillow to the basement since I knew it would be cooler. Faithfully sitting on my couch was George:

George is my oldest and dearest possession. I received him for Christmas at 14 months and he's been my constant ever since. He's lived a hard life. He had to lead an entire mob of stuffies on my first big kid bed. At some point of curiosity, I stuck him in our almost empty wood burning stove, sometime around age four or five. He had to be put in the washer to clean off the ash. That's how he lost a good portion of his lips. You can see part of George on the day of his birth, to the extreme left -- fully lipped and riding my Fisher Pricemobile:

This one has nothing to do with George, I'm including it because this is my blog, and I never remember being this cute (my brother always carried the good-looking gene). Yes, a toddler picture is what I'm working with:

Further hope that my kids will be adorable :)

Thinking about George and our childhood fun led me to consider how little remains from that life. Most people come and go (at least in my life), so the best I can do is leave as great an impact as God would allow within a passing moment. During my last week as a camp director, I was having an incredibly emotional moment when one of my favorite staff walked over to switch the normal dynamic of our relationship. As I grieved over how little I had actually accomplished in my years of ministry, she drew a rather authoritative tone and said:

"Anthony Marks, if most believers did for Christ in a lifetime what you have done in five years, we would change the world. Do you hear me?!?"

I heard her, but I don't have the luxury of believing her. I'm reminded of D.L. Moody, who couldn't rest at night without having shared Christ with someone that day. He didn't share out of a law or an obligation, but rather because he couldn't imagine bearing the best gift known to creation and keeping it to himself.

So if I make the humble estimate that I impacted 1000 kids and teens through my time at Prairie Camp, I still only hold the peace and assurance of five to ten that remain in contact. The remainder? A first-class lesson in trusting that my ministry was pleasing to Him.

That's all I get. But then, most of the time, that's all we're given. Hebrews 11 reminds us of those we read about today -- the great giants of the faith -- that died long before their lives helped transform ours. Hebrews 12 directs us to consider these men and women in the completion of our own race. I have to figure, a small percentage of our legacy will be known within our lifetime.

There are two within this "cloud of witnesses" that spur me today...

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My Grandma Kohli was widowed before my birth, and my dad's parents were absent, so I only knew and loved one grandparent. This was fine with me; she was a real keeper! She had this contagious laugh that made me want to do goofy stuff in front of her, and I'm pretty sure she was the only adult that didn't grow tired of my eccentric nature...at least she never showed it :) She was the queen of the Thanksgiving dinner, and she made a point of getting the entire family together.

In the middle of my self-absorbed adolescence, she died of cancer. I wish I had known what I would be missing. I was thinking it would be awesome to speak with her adult-to-adult and pick her brain on being the spiritual head of an extended family.

But then I realized, the beauty of Grandma was that her faith was best expressed with the heart of a child. Spending the night as a 7-year-old was the perfect way to know her and to know her Jesus. I think God took her when her grandchildren had grown too old to appreciate her in that way.

I was a believer at 16 -- in fact I was beginning a week of church camp when she died. But I can remember sitting in that old sanctuary with her pastor delivering her passing wish: "Virginia knows where her children are, but her final prayer was that her grandchildren would know Jesus."

Best I know, of the eight of us, it's just me. During those couple years after her death, it could've gone either way if Jesus hadn't chased me. Sometimes when I am snared in sin, I think about Grandma's prayer. I like to picture a fully alive version of Grandma cheering me from heaven.

I acknowledge how shortsighted I am about my camp kids. Would Grandma have loved the assurance that we would all be following the Lord? Absolutely. But I don't think she would dwell on the wanderers. I think she would look at my life and be pleased with me as her legacy. I think Christ is warmed by her heart and humility and would consider her one of the greatest in His Kingdom.

I know that I am blessed to have been her grandchild and to have known Jesus as a result.

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"Grandpa" Leon was already progressing in years before he came to know his Jesus. A retired school bus driver, he braved the Indiana heat to be the resident grandfather to hundreds of boys. He had this way of finding the outcast and loving them to Jesus. Grandpa Leon prayed for every child at bedtime with his gentle hands, and hugged us as if we were the most important kids that God ever created. For years he shared his gripping testimony during our Thursday night campfires, and many came to know Jesus because of his unashamed evangelism.

I was thankful to get to know him as a "peer." During my first few summers, I was privileged to work with him in the dorm, laughing at how secure he was in crossing generational lines. In an era of ministry where generations are purposely dissected, Leon labored through silly children's songs and camp games to love us to Jesus. He used to yell at us if we weren't being loud enough during the bus rides. To him, the choirs of heaven likely sound like forty kids screaming at the top of their lungs :)

Byron, Dan, and I attended his funeral after he died, and the service seemed so humble for the spiritual legacy that we knew this man had. But those who worked with him the longest shared their joyful stories with tears. He is my spiritual hero, and I pray my life is a fitting continuance to that which he has sown.