Legacy

Dear God,

Will the wind hold still upon my passing? Will there be a thunder that rolls across the world, giving some sign of my soul tearing from this frail flesh? Might even there be a shaking of the soil beneath the feet of those I leave behind? I have wondered woefully of what mark I might leave behind after I am gone; is it arrogance to harbor this desire? In all the mortal world what has driven man, but for his lasting legacy?

If indeed, Homer's Day is remembered as a time of Giants, what shall my Day be called in this long history you’ve allowed us to record? Should it be said that I lived in a time of Digital Gods? Might my era echo through history as an Age of Enlightenment, or will it be called a Time of Fools? Will it even be remembered—painstakingly fractured away from record for a Great Shame by our children?

God, it is a gripping pain—at times—to keep my gaze forward. I confess, my faith in both You and man have been tested; I have thus emerged this quotidian creature with an undying hope in both. I hold stalwart against the ceaseless waves of despair and will continue to urge my fellow man to do so. Yet here I sit, tentatively poised on the winking pixels before me. Here, I wonder what small gift I might entrust to those who come after me.

I know there is little chance that I should cause disturbance in my wake. I toil with the works offered to my hands and try hard to provide what I can for my family. I am a cog in a mortal engine, a side effect of industry. I have ever been—and suspect I shall ever be—a laborer to my country. I have no great gifts, no trade beyond what I’ve taught myself and no talents that warrant pause to the grinding of my work.

When that unseen hand of death should be placed upon my shoulder, will I have done anything at all to aid those who I love? Will I have made such a difference that my name might still be spoken a generation after? Should it matter to me at all? Is this concern of legacy some species of vanity that I should move beyond?

If you should read this, God, please allow this small plea. Let it be that in my passing there is no thunder, or shaking earth. Let the quiet of death embrace me and let there be no stillness in the world. Let those I’ve loved remember that I love them; let those I’ve hated forgive me that futile and worthless expense. Let it be said, I pray, that I lived on the precipice of a Golden Age. Let the earth know me as the dust I am. Let it be said that despite all my many flaws, I was a man that never stopped trying to understand.

Yours, Truly,
George