The same oriental tea set that would sit unnoticed at a garage sale is priceless in my eyes. It is adopted as a precious possession because of whose it was.
My grandfather served in the Korean War and brought back this tea set imprinted with silver dragons for my grandmother.
She was priceless to me. Not just my grandmother, but someone I understood and someone who understood me. My father's mother: a soul mate born in the 1930s, a friend.
The year I became a wife, she died of a massive stroke.
So when what was hers becomes mine, it is precious. It is precious because it was hers, because it was passed down to me.
Her dining room table and chairs, her wooden hutch that holds my wedding crystal and our homeschooling books and art supplies, her odd little tomato pitcher, the framed picture of us together at my wedding (the last time I saw her in this life), and now her dragon tea set and a pair of white cups and saucers, covered with dancing red snowflakes.
These things are not her legacy. Her legacy is imprinted in me -- like blood it runs through me. Her legacy to love God and love people, to serve with His hands, and to pray for and encourage those she encountered.
I sit late at night, flipping through the pages of a worn Bible that smells like antique library books; a Bible that was hers, and before that, her mother's. I see her tiny script in the margins, TYF!, Thank you Father. I hear her voice giving thanks for the things He gives, and picture her hands receiving, even when the gift doesn't seem good.
Her things are not her legacy. They are just things. Her legacy is the rich wisdom and love with which she graced her children and grandchildren.
Without knowing Whose I am, perhaps I sit unnoticed and am passed by, without worth. Without knowing Who loves and care for me, maybe I am unlovable.
It is because of His blood I am precious. It is because of my spiritual birthright that I am a treasure. And it is because I know the Giver that I can learn to accept what is given, whether I would choose it or not.