A footprint is left behind

  During the Second World War, somehow an American graffiti drawing of a bald-headed man beame quite popular.

The accompanying phrase, “Kilroy was here,” set the graffiti apart. The expression along with the drawing of a man with a prominent nose peeking over a wall with the fingers of each hand clutching the wall became associated with GIS in the 1940s.

Its origins are debated, but the phrase and the distinctive accompanying doodle was found on walls throughout the world. Somehow, there was a footprint left behind by an unknown man or men. I suspect that somewhere in our DNA, there is a desire to have that happen to us. We long to be remembered, to have something that will stand the test of time, something about us that lets us know that we won’t be forgotten down the corridors of time.

The closing of Psalms 90 reads “Let your acts be seen by your servants; let your glory be seen by their children. Let the kindness of the Lord our God be over us. Make the work of our hands last. Make the work of our hands last.”

I was pondering things lately. Getting sick – again – and having hours upon end to contemplate life, death and destinations in between does that for you. You ponder. You think. You muse. You reflect.

In the end, if you’re so very lucky, you come to some conclusion or you reach deep inside and come up with maybe one answer.

The question was a simple one, arriving as it did during a fever dream (I think). The question: Did you do anything that will be remembered when you’re gone?”

I’m reminded of a Brandon Heath song that (paraphrased) reflects upon that first breath in heaven and last breath on earth. Heath writes that we won’t be asked how well we did, but instead will be asked how well we loved.

That’s something that can be remembered, I think. That’s an imprint, a footprint, a bit of one’s soul left in the dust of time and place. How well did you love is the ultimate question, and thus the ultimate answer.

I think one of the main reasons I loved having a couple books published was that forever and a day I’m written into history. The Library of Congress keeps track of all books published, I’m told. Hence there is a footprint. I’ve been here, and somehow that won’t be forgotten. That and microfilm editions of various newspapers literally across the country that have my face and columns in them.

Killroy wasn't here, but I was here. I made some small degree of an impact. Ultimately, however, that means nothing without love. “Let the kindness of the Lord our God be over us. Make the work of our hands last.”

That’s life, or what passes for the goodness of life.