One chilly night last autumn, I sat in a small A-frame chapel at a Christian camp. The woods around us were dark and still, but the globe lights of the chapel glowed bright and warm. A pastor was speaking about the concept of legacy.
“This weekend, I’m going to break the idea of ‘legacy’ into four parts,” he said. “Heritage, foundation, growth, and kingdom. Tonight, we’ll talk about heritage.”
I was one of the youngest people there. This was the camp’s eightieth anniversary weekend, and the rows of folding chairs held four generations’ worth of people who had originally come here as everything from younger campers to teenage staff (lifeguards, kitchen crew, and counselors) to parents and grandparents for family retreats. Most of us had sat in this chapel for dozens of Bible lessons, devotionals, seminars, skits, and game nights. Some had first committed their lives to Christ at this camp, met their spouses, married in this chapel, and sent their children here.
One of the simplest meanings of “legacy” is a gift or bequest. That anniversary weekend, I felt the full weight of the gift of my family legacy and spiritual legacy: heritage, foundation, growth, and kingdom.
Heritage
The pastor explained that heritage, the first pillar of legacy, is received. He focused on the role of storytelling in passing down our spiritual heritage to the next generation.
I am blessed to be one of the third-generation “camp people.” My dad’s parents remembered when the camp was established in 1945, and all their children worked there as groundskeepers, lifeguards, counselors, or kitchen staff. My grandparents would have loved to come to this eightieth anniversary, but they’re enjoying a much grander celebration now in the presence of God.
That anniversary weekend at camp was full of stories. I spoke with the lovely widow of the man who helped build the A-frame chapel in the 1950s and fell during its construction, injuring his shoulder badly. He could never straighten his arm out fully again—but that did not stop him from building dozens of beautiful custom-made homes in the Boston area. Others told of nighttime pranks, romances, games, and epiphanies.
I have my own stories. As a little camper, I watched goofy skits that showed me how faith is a matter of delight as well as duty. I sang sappy camp songs that taught me about God’s tenderness. I curled up on my down sleeping bag under pale fluorescent cabin lights, listening to an evening devotion about the lukewarm Laodiceans from Revelation 3. As a staff member, I sat at a picnic table outside the lodge on a cool June morning, riveted by a session on the consecration ceremony of Leviticus 8.
When it comes to family heritage and stories, my family’s are nothing grand or mysterious. But the long, quiet, steady faithfulness of my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents is a gift I’m just learning to thank God for. Both grandfathers passed down a steady work ethic and a love of adventure. Both grandmothers gave me a taste for books and hospitality: detective stories and missionary biographies, pot roasts and pies at full tables. Both grandparents and parents handed down a deep love for Scripture and a habit of daily prayer.
When I studied English in college, the despair of modernist texts in my American Literature course sank into me deeply. Ernest Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” stands out in my memory as a literally and figuratively dark tale. My dad’s parents were born in the 1920s, so I knew they lived through the time of Hemingway’s writing.
“How did you survive?” I asked them when I next came home. “How did you hold onto hope?”
“We trusted the Lord,” they said simply. Their words felt as warm and soothing as lamplight.
Not every family’s heritage is a blessing. But followers of Jesus have something more precious than an earthly trust fund or country estate. As Hebrews 11 explains, we belong to a glorious tradition of people who walked by faith, desiring a better country.
Remember! Remember! As I think about renewing gratitude, I realize how much of it is simply telling the stories of the good things God has done.
Foundation
If heritage is received, then foundation, the second pillar of legacy, is built.
This camp originated as a Jewish boys’ camp. It’s a hilly place set on granite: sheets of wrinkled stone at the top of the cabin hill, lichen-spotted boulders that are excellent for climbing, and stone walls full of chipmunk holes. Jewish campers from long ago, along with the following generations of boys, including my uncle, carved their names into these rocks. As the camp turned tents into primitive cabins, and those cabins into nicer ones, that rock foundation remains, impervious to almost everything but the slow work of time.
That eightieth anniversary, I kept thinking about the long, slow work of building a spiritual foundation. I looked around at other “camp people” and thought about the way they spent their lives: work, mealtimes, Bible reading, taxes, birthday parties, bridal and baby showers, car repairs, weddings, funerals, voting, graduations, reunions, sports games, and holidays. The spiritual realities of faith, loving-kindness, and goodness are revealed and created through all those events and choices.
But a spiritual foundation is also made of relationships. My camper friendships were brief, but I will never forget the deep bonds I made as a staff member. We would get up early and blink sleepily together over coffee; talk for hours as we mopped floors and carried trash bags; and jump into the lake fully clothed to rescue drifting waterfront equipment. That kind of labor gives you a deep, three-dimensional knowledge of people that is missing in the fragmented encounters of normal adult life. Some of those staff friendships are still part of the bedrock of my life.
Renewing gratitude is a part of building and reflecting on our foundations. In my choices and relationships, I want to keep asking: What am I building?
Growth
If heritage is received and foundations are built, growth is cultivated. I grew in Biblical knowledge as a camper, but the real spiritual greenhouses were the summers on staff. I stretched to find self-discipline to work long hours in the hot sun, figuring out how to fix pipes and doorknobs (I am the least mechanical person I know), lift kayaks, and carry cots up the steep hills. I prayed for gentleness to avoid snapping at my coworkers after a long session in the snack shop, and perseverance to hunt down all the right sheets for all the luxury cabin’s beds on the last dead-tired day of camp. Pushing through exhaustion and encouraging my teammates strengthened spiritual muscles I needed for the remainder of college and the draining, lonely years of beginning a career.
Gratitude and growth are kin. Thanking God for every small thing, like the slender birches by the lake in the morning, the cheerfulness of my coworkers, and the sweet rest of Saturday afternoons gave me spiritual roots for seasons of drought.
Kingdom
The fourth pillar of the pastor’s talks on legacy that weekend was “kingdom.” Heritage is received, foundations are built, growth is cultivated, and kingdom is—actually, I missed that last session because I left early to make it to church, so I have to guess. My guess is that the Kingdom is anticipated.
The camp is uniquely situated for reflecting on God’s Kingdom. It’s a quiet place in the mountains next to a deep, cool lake renowned for its purity. That anniversary weekend, the leaves burned copper, gold, and scarlet. Ordinary life happens in the bustling cities and suburbs; camp exists outside of time.
The sunrises and sunsets at that camp were sublime. We would kayak on the lake at dawn on Friday mornings, watching the fierce gold sun rise over the green mountains—or be obscured in silver mist. We watched sunsets that started with flaming rose-pink clouds and then a long fade from blue to black as the lamplights and dock lights of homes across the lake began to twinkle.
I can’t help but think of that beauty and quiet when I think about God’s Kingdom. Returning to camp for this anniversary weekend reminded me to set aside times and places to revel in that wonder; to remember the great legacy we’re given, beyond the capacity of all our gratitude.
The featured image, “Twinkle Lights in a Jar,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
Alicia Pollard is a follower of Christ, storyteller, and Bible teacher. She lives in New England, where she loves hiking through forests and climbing mountains. She studied Theology and the Arts at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, where she explored the Deadly Sins of Sloth and Anger, the relationship between faith and imagination, and the works of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and T.S. Eliot. In the past, she hosted a podcast, “Leaf by Lantern,” which explored retelling fairy tales through the lens of Scripture.
In her spare time, Alicia loves spending time with family; reading fantasy, mysteries, and sci-fi; writing fiction; and sometimes photographing mossy rocks or the sun rising over lakes. She blogs about yearning, books, and glimpses of transcendence at aliciapollard.com.
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