On the random stack of things that magically appear outside my office door from time to time, this week I discovered a scrapbook that caught my attention. It was a scrapbook of the first years of Shepherd of the Hills. I was curious to look at the old pictures, letters, bulletins, and other keepsakes from the beginning of the church’s history in 1969. That was 40 years ago. I recognized a couple of names, but most of the faces have changed since then. One thing that was particularly interesting to me: There was a contest to name the church. Before a name was chosen, the church was referred to as “Northwest Lutheran Mission.” People were given a ballot with suggested names and asked to chose one. Among the choices were: Holy Oaks Lutheran Church (“holy oaks, Batman!”), Mount Sinai Lutheran Church, Paradise Lutheran Church, Pilgrim Lutheran Church, The Cornerstone Lutheran Church, and St. Nikolai Lutheran Church.
Why was this history so interesting to me? I wasn’t around when the church began. It’s not like I’m looking at the scrapbook and saying, “I remember that. Look how funny my hair looked back then!” This scrapbook wasn’t my history; I wasn’t even alive in 1969. Yet it was my history because I’m a part of Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church. What happened in 1969 at Northwest Lutheran Mission isn’t my history in one sense, but in another sense it is my history because I’m a part of this church.
When we’re a part of something bigger than ourselves, the story of that larger thing becomes our story. Your family history is your history. What happened to your parents and grandparents matters to you. You’re an American. The story of American history is your story. You weren’t there when the Declaration of Independence was signed. You weren’t there during the Civil War. But those stories are your story because you’re an American, a citizen of this country.