a colorful inheritance

Last year, my pastor, preached a sermon series about the Abrahamic convenant, God's promises to Abraham, and by extension, his people (Genesis 12). We modern followers of Jesus, having been adopted into this family of God, now share in the promises of covenance with God (Hebrews 8). We explored what it means to be children of God, the promises he makes us, the priveleges of having such a great Father. My pastor frequently used the term inheritance, referring to what we can expect and what is expected of us, having been adopted into such a family. Each time the word inheritance flew into the air, I laughed, sometimes aloud. Read on, you'll understand.

I was in third grade and staring at the tinsel icicles on the Christmas tree had begun to make my whole field of vision seem bright, yet hazy. After all of the presents had been doled out, my Grandmother pulled me aside. She informed me that there was one more gift, which she seemed a bit reluctant to pass on. Not the type to mince words, Grandma just stated, "Be careful, it's very old. And keep in mind, your Aunt Joan can be forgetful", and handed me two large boxes. Being a child whose imagination daily abandoned all restraint, I savored the few moments it took to unwrap the packages.

My mind raced through the possibilities! A treasure trove of books, buttons, bear skins? Perhaps some collection of insect wings, pungent containers of spices, or a keyring, the contents of which could have me on a wild goose chase for years? Some civil-war era photographs denoting a family tear, brothers forced to fight in opposition? I secretly hoped for some magic mirror or grimmoire (my reading tended toward fantasy that year). As I lifted the lid on the first box, I first smelled moth balls and then saw bright colors. My hands flew into fabric and I saw that the box was filled with silks, laces and stiff, starched cotton- all in the form of toddler's clothing. It was a sight to behold! As I laid each of the garments onto the carpeted floor of Grandma's basement, I wondered who had worn these outfits and why on earth they had been sent to me. I started in on the second box. Grandma must have grown nervous or impatient and began to gently offer more of an explanation.

You see, Great, Great Aunt Helen's husband, Percival, had been a detective. In exchange for some investigation at a local department store, Percival was given what was in the boxes. Through the years, they had been passed to Great Aunt Joan and now, to me. I lifted the lid and began to unrap balls of tissue paper, still curious.

Flesh colored limbs began to roll into my hands, then a large, milky abdomen. I turned this piece over and screamed as it made a noise. Apparently, I was now the proud owner of a very old, quite valuable doll who, among other things, cried Mama when it was overturned, served as a 1930's children's clothing model and eventually suffered dismantling by one of my Mother's cousins. Recovering from the initial shock and beginning to appreciate the history that had been bequeathed to me, I sorted through the fragments. My face must have foretold my realization and Grandma tersely stated, "she forgot to send the head".

We eventually recovered all pieces and my Mom, Grandma and I made several trips to a restoration artist. We called the doll Percy and eventually, took Percy to reunite for afternoon tea with Great Great Aunt Helen. Helen was 95 and full of life. Her eyes danced as she told tales and I marveled at her independent spirit. She had lived alone in the same apartment for thirty-some odd years. Fingering the leaves of her African violets, Helen recalled sleuthing with Percival and laughed mischievously at the stir she caused joining him. A woman in that time, participating in such a profession was a downright scandal. She seemed to thrive on the drama and whispered to me to look up. My eyes raised to shelves installed just below the crown molding, around the perimeter of the room. They held intricate, old, cut glass liquor bottles, filled now as prisms with water and food coloring. In a family of teetotallers, scandal did not even begin to describe the defiance of her decoration. I loved the brightness of this rainbow and the vibrance of the woman who created it.

Percy now guards my former bedroom at my parents' place. She does this quite effectively,since many folks I know refuse to spend time with her. In addition to squawking when overturned, her eyes are weighted and stepping too closely may just cause them to follow you. I've grown used to Percy's gaze but most of my friends find it unnerving.

Two years ago, I met another Great Aunt. I had no idea she existed until I got a call from my Mother asking me if I'd like to go to Pennsylvania to see Aunt Mart. Apparently, Aunt Mart had been married to a family member who had passed away before I was old enough to know. Aunt Mart had recently been back in contact and desired a visit. It was fall and we drove the decorative, rural roads to arrive at a lovely split-level house with a view of a small, cool pond. Upon entrance, my eyes fell to the walls, tables, even floor. Each surface was testimony to Aunt Mart's travels. There were golden camels, brightly woven rugs, tables inlaid with various shades of rose quartz and marble. Everything sparkled, but nothing more than the eyes of the spritely, feisty old woman who stood before me. She gave us a tour of the house, and through her stories, her life. We struggled to keep up as she, 83 years old, bounded up and down stairs with the energy of an adolescent gymnast. She insisted on a tour of town and loaded us into her station wagon. We held on tightly as she sped through town and then took us on a drive to a nearby mill, framed by crimson foliage. We returned for lunch to a table set with every piece of silverware imaginable and multiple plates and chargers. "I hope you like it," Mart said. I gave my standard response to such statements, "as long as it's not cottage cheese," meaning to indicate that I was not picky. Mart laughed as she brought out tiny bowls full of cottage cheese sprinkled with pepper, garnished with tomato. My face burned, but I laughed along and promised to try it.

Later that year, Mom informed me that Mart was on the move, to Florida to live with her daughters, each of whom had retired. Readying for the move, she had decided to disperse some of her possessions to the family and she had something special picked out for me. It was at this point in the conversation that Mom couldn't help but laugh. She giggled and I wondered what on earth could be coming my way. I asked Mom not to tell me. My roommate and I formed a list of questions. Is it bigger than a breadbox? Is it made of fabric? What is its shape? Mom did her best to answer and after 25 questions, laughing all the way and occasionally reminding me that Aunt Mart had picked this out. By hand. Specifically for me. Just me. I still had no clue what to expect but began to be a little frightened. I had a few weeks to wait.

I headed to my parents' house for the weekend and after much debate, laughter and deliberation, my present from Aunt Mart was unveiled. Before me stood a rather large, framed, color-saturated picture. To own the truth, a giant black velvet portrait of a clown, painted in all colors of the rainbow. The portrait is only of the clown's head: bright white face, framed by kelly green hair and a pink, ruffled collar. The clown's eyes are shaded with cobalt blue makeup and it's exagerrated lips are persimmon red. The black velvet background makes the colors pop. Mart purchased it on the street, from an artist at Carnival in Brazil and after briefly meeting me, somehow decided, knew, that it belonged with me.

I've spent more time than is certainly necessary or advisable reflecting on these inheritances of mine- bizarre objects full of history and stories passed deliberately into my possesion by feisty women. I've considered Abrahamic, Noahic and New covenants with God- promises God has made to us, full of rainbows, free life and rich, grace-filled storylines. Both my earthly and my heavenly inheritance often seem out of reach, beyond my comprehension. I struggle to know and understand the reasons I've been gifted with the legacy of such fathers as Abraham, the story of redemption in Noah or the narrative of forgiveness from God. In truth, I do not know why any more than I know why a black velvet clown portait sits in my room. But for both, with laughter, I am grateful.