Family History

My Mom's side had a Family Reunion this past week.  Unfortunately, Kenzie and I were unable to make it, but we were able to meet my parents on the I-5 as we returned to So Cal and they returned to the Bay. Truth be told, I was somewhat glad I didn't have to go (as I was required to when I lived under my parent's roof), since I end up being quite introverted in new situations. I was thankful to avoid some of the awkward small talk that comes with being around people you're supposed to know, because you're family, but who you actually know nothing about, because you didn't even know they existed, let alone that they were blood relatives, until you showed up at the reunion. Catch my drift?

But as Kenzie and I sat down at a pristinely clean Quizno's at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, we listened as my parents recounted the legacy of faith that has characterized the McIntosh clan. My grandfather is the youngest of 10 siblings (maybe 12 - I would know if I went to the reunion), and most all of his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, children and grandchildren, second and third cousins twice removed are walking, or walked, with the Lord. The Faithfulness of God (which was the theme for the reunion) was, and is evident in this mish-mash of people with whom I share genes. I didn't ask for them, didn't choose them, at times didn't even want them, but their history is my history.  And it is a history of faithfulness, primarily God's and their subsequent response.

Kenzie and I have both struggled through the books of 1-2 Kings and Chronicles.  We both felt bogged down by the tedious attention to insignificant details, lists and lists of names we couldn't remember or keep track of, exploits of one king or another that, over time, became white noise. We were reading Scripture, God's written word, and we couldn't wait to get it over with. It all seemed so pointless, so unnecessary. Couldn't we just move onto Jesus, onto the stuff that matters, onto the stories that really impact our faith?

And yet, as isolated and distant I feel from these obscure stories, I can't forget that they are part of my history.  The stories of the Old Testament, both good and bad, are stories of my mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters.  I've been grafted into a history that I didn't get to write, that I didn't oversee, that I didn't choose, that was part of the whole package sent to me when I said yes to Jesus. And as much as I don't like it at times, don't want to be a part of it, or try to envision myself as somehow outside the bounds of this grand story, I can't escape it.

Just as the genes that have determined my very being are woven into every part of my body and have placed me within a narrative bigger than myself, so too, the Spirit of God, who vivifies and invigorates my crippled soul, has swept me into a beautiful story of redemption. A story of a tattered, bruised, broken, and downtrodden group of people who have somehow come together through the magnificent love of a very good God. It's a reunion that I would definitely not want to miss.