My Bible study this past month has taken me back through the book of Genesis. In that book, the family tree of the Israelites is established through Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. It’s a family tree that impacts and defines many people of faith throughout the world. Millions of people can find their roots there, still, today.
As I was rocking my son back to sleep early this morning, I realized that, like Abraham, Isaac or Jacob, he is in himself a little family tree. Looking at him, I can trace the roots of both mine and my husband’s family history. There’s the obvious: he has his daddy’s eyes and mama’s mouth. But he also has his Grandpa Clell’s nose, which goes back at least two generations. He has his Great-Grandpa Clell’s ornery smile, and his Great-Grandpa William’s stubborn chin. When I look at him I see he has his daddy’s build, long torso with short legs, which his daddy inherited from his dad, and his dad before that. His long feet come from his Grandma Mikki’s side of the family, and the width comes from his Grandpa Ken. His seriousness he gets from his grandmas, and his playfulness from his grandpas. Stubbornness goes back generations on all sides of the families, and his fierce independence comes from at least a few generations of strong-willed German women.
This baby boy is rocked to sleep in the same glider his Great-Grandpa William rocked himself in as he grew older. He naps under an afghan knitted together by his daddy’s grandma, and under which his daddy slept. He was laid in the bassinet that his great uncle first used and which every baby on his mama’s side of the family has laid in. He was baptized in the same outfit his daddy was baptized in, and lays each day on the same changing table his Grandma Mikki used with his daddy.
Some people have family Bibles. Others have family crests or shields. I find, however, that when I look at my son I see our family history in the flesh. And that is all I need.