We have a funeral to go to this Friday. My great-uncle passed away at the age of 92, so we’ll be traveling north to celebrate his ordinary legacy.

My grandmother’s brother was married for 62 years, and they adopted two children who have both built wonderful families. He served God and his community all his life and left a lasting impact. Why would you care about a random old man’s passing though? You don’t have to, but there’s something beautiful about celebrating a quiet life built on family and faith.

Everyone wants to write about their grandmother or their great-uncle, and I’m no exception. Is it instinctual or just traditional for us to hang on to our heritage?

The most valuable legacy my family has given me is an enduring faith in Jesus. I don’t define my work as “Christian writing”, but I do know that my writing is heavily shaped by the deep-rooted faith of my family. I don’t take this blessing for granted. Our faith is the cornerstone of our family legacy.

We preserve traits of our family whether we mean to or not. My name is Elena, my mother’s middle name is Ellen, and my grandfather’s mother was named Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen was a poet, my mother is a writer, and evidently I am a writer as well. The name is intentionally preserved, and I suppose the creative traits are a package deal.

I can’t know the story of every person who walked this earth, but I can do my best to preserve the ordinary legacies of those who I call family.

Three summers ago I embarked on a records preservation project. My cousin had recorded a series of conversations with our grandfather, so I transcribed the recordings and bound them together with a short biography he had written in the 1990s. I also digitized numerous family photographs and a ninety-page biography my great-aunt had written. As I left Office Depot after scanning the massive booklet, I played Elvis’ How Great Thou Art in my car. There was something sacred about the project I’d undertaken. Knowing that I’m honoring the stories of those who came before me and making sure their names are preserved is a noble task, and I treat it with the respect it deserves.

My becoming a writer and record-keeper was somewhat inevitable, but I’m also practicing a more intentional form of preservation by learning to garden and can my own food. As we wind down the harvest season and gather up the last of the vegetables, my mother and I have preserved 18 cans of various dishes in just one weekend. I carry my ancestors with me every time I fill a jar, carrying in me their attunement to God’s creation.

I don’t read my grandfather’s biography or flip through our carefully organized photo album very often. But just knowing that these memories are preserved on my shelves brings me a sense of security. It’s the same reason all of my journals are in a box in the garage. Something about the act of preservation brings a sense of security and grounding, for better or for worse. The jars of delicious and nutritious food hold the same security

I wrote The Farm and the Family six years ago already, and my appreciation for my heritage has only grown. I can almost see my grandmothers through the generations smiling at the shelves of cans in our garage, the binders of memories. I will preserve every ordinary legacy that I can.

Why should you care about a random old man’s passing though? My great-uncle wasn’t rich or famous or well-known. He lived in a small town all his life, built a family, served God and his community. And that’s exactly why I care. I preserve the ordinary legacies of my family because I treasure the values I’ve witnessed and learned through generations, and I hope to pass them on to the next generation when I am ready. Whether in binders of memories or jars of food, my family’s legacy lives on in me. That’s all I know for now. Thanks for reading