Hope for Healing a Broken Legacy

Late last year our daughter and son-in-law surprised us with the news that they are expecting their first child. That’s right, our first grandchild is on the way. We are very excited about this brand new season in our lives.

Being the pensive guy that I am, I’ve been spending time reflecting on the significance of the birth of a new generation. I’ve wondered what kind of grandpa I will be and the legacy that I’ll one day leave behind.

As I think about legacy I can’t help but think about my paternal grandfather, William John Weldon. I never got to know him, as he died days after my second birthday. The only memories I have of him are the tattered, black and white photo (below) and the stories my aunt has shared with me.

William John Weldon (1906-1972)

When I look at his picture I see a young man with great promise. Handsome, with bright eyes and a gentle face. My aunt tells me that, as a younger man, he was hardworking, smart, funny, and engaging. He was also musically gifted, playing the piano, violin and the accordion.

Bill, as he was known, immigrated to Canada from Scotland with his family when he was young. At twenty-nine, he married a local girl and moved into the house next door to his parents on the main street. He had a future as bright as anyone; a full-time job at the milk-products factory down by the river and a growing family.

When the milk factory closed, he moved on to the nearby rivet factory where he excelled; employing his sharp mind and natural mechanical ability. It’s told that while he was there he invented some sort of new tool or machine that was used at the factory for years.

Then, sometime in his late forties, he began going to the bar with the guys after work. Maybe he had hoped that a couple drinks would bring relief from the stress of work and family; by this time he had a couple teenagers in the house.

But, what likely began innocently as a brief escape, soon became a prison of brokenness and addiction. His frequent drinking consumed much of the family’s income, leaving his wife struggling to keep the four kids clothed and fed with the paltry leftover funds. My dad, his oldest son, would sometimes have to intervene when his dad would come home drunk and get belligerent.

Unfortunately grandpa never stopped drinking. When he died at sixty-eight, his family still had the house on main street, but not much else. He spent his last twenty years distant and withdrawn, leaving his relationship with his children strained and having no meaningful connection with any of his grandchildren.

My dad bore his father’s first name and some of his positive traits. Although he wasn’t musical, he was a skilled craftsman (he could build anything) with an amiable demeanor and a quick wit. He also got married at twenty-nine, to a fine young lady from Ohio. But their marriage was turbulent and, after multiple separations, it came to an end after just thirteen years.

This time it wasn’t drinking that caused the problems - I don’t ever remember seeing my dad drink - but his hot temper, emotional distance, and inability to maintain healthy relationships contributed to its demise. I suspect that the scars of the broken legacy he received bear a lot of the blame.

I was eight when mom and dad divorced and we moved away to live with my mom’s parents in Ohio. Sadly, the brokenness of previous generations had now made its cruel mark on the next.

My dad had avoided the bottle and instead sought relief in religion. It surely gave him hope for a better eternity, but it was impotent to bring about the deep healing and transformation that he needed. Religion has a way of smoothing things over on the surface but leaving the heart unchanged. He remained distant and uninvolved in the lives of his children and grandchildren until his death at sixty-six.

As a young man I remember sitting in church and hearing the pastor speak about how the sins of the parents pass on to subsequent generations (Exodus 20:5). I thought about my grandfather, my dad, and me. I prayed in that moment that the generational curse would stop and that, starting with me, my family would somehow be the beginning of generations of wholeness and blessing.

Like my dad, I was drawn to religious behavior and, for a while, it seemed like enough. Thankfully, in my mid-twenties, I was confronted with the saving and renewing grace of Jesus and I gladly received it.

The Holy Spirit got to work right away, stripping away all my illusions of self-righteousness, revealing a heart full of fear and faithlessness. Gone were the thoughts that I was somehow better than those that came before me. No, I too am a sinner in desperate need of God’s grace. If generational change was going to come, it was not going to be through my empty pious behavior.

In the years that have transpired, I’ve realized that generational change and personal spiritual renewal are not at all easy. What I wanted was an instant, fairy-tale-like transformation. What I’ve experienced is the difficult, and often painful, restorative work of a hammer in the hands of a master metalsmith who is, blow by blow, driving out the dents and deformities amassed over generations.

I shouldn’t be surprised. The apostle Paul tells us plainly that freedom from sin comes only through death.

For we know the our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin - because anyone who has died has been set free from sin. (Romans 6:6)

Anyone who knows me and my family personally can attest to the fact that we have not yet achieved generational perfection. We are, for sure, a work in progress. Never-the-less I continue to pray that, through Christ, in my generation, there will be some improvement, some positive change in the trajectory of the lives of those who bear my name - for their sake and for all those who will follow.

I remain hopeful, not in my own meager, imperfect efforts, but in the ability of the Lord to accomplish His transformational work and keep His promises. I’m thankful for the work that he has already done in me and my wife and in each of my children. And I’m thankful that, even though we don’t get a say in the legacy we receive, because of Jesus, we do have a choice in the one we pass on.