Nothing has ever been invented that allows us to peer into the future. And yet, we spend so much of our lives hoping that what we build today will still matter tomorrow. As Martin Luther King Jr. so powerfully said in his final speech,
“I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land.”
As William sat quietly, gazing at a photograph of his newborn grandchild, those words echoed in his heart. He felt joy, pride, and a gentle ache all at once. He wondered if he would still be around when his grandchildren—or even his great-grandchildren—began to ask questions about where they came from. Who would tell them his story? Who would explain the meaning of the land beneath their feet?
That land had not come easily. William’s grandparents had been sharecroppers, working long days under the sun, earning just enough to survive and never quite enough to get ahead. Every dollar they saved toward owning land came at the cost of exhaustion, sacrifice, and quiet determination. Still, they held on to hope. Through years of struggle, they managed to secure a piece of land that would one day become the foundation of their family’s future.
William’s parents carried that burden forward. He remembered listening as his father spoke about scraping together payments, about choosing responsibility over comfort, and about never letting go of what his parents had fought so hard to obtain. William himself followed that example, working two jobs to pay for college, knowing that education, too, was part of honoring their sacrifice.
Now, holding that photograph, William felt a new concern settle in his spirit. What if future generations looked at the land only as property—and not as a promise? What if, not knowing the struggle, the prayers, and the perseverance behind it, they chose to sell it? He feared that without understanding the sacrifices made, the legacy could quietly slip away.
William reflected on how much he wished he could still hear his grandmother’s voice telling stories from the past, or his father’s voice recounting how those 20 acres became home. Those voices had faded with time, and he didn’t want the same thing to happen to his own story—or to the stories of those who came before him.
William’s eyes moved away from the photograph he was holding, turned, and watched as his grandchild slept peacefully. William made a decision. He would work with Your Days Your Legacy to document his family’s journey. He would preserve not only his own story, but also the voices, struggles, and sacrifices of his parents and grandparents. He wanted future generations to know that what they inherited was not accidental—it was earned through resilience, love, and faith.
And as he turned back and looked at the photograph, he smiled softly and thought to himself:
“I may not be here when you need guidance. But when you walk this land—our promised land—my legacy will be here to guide you.”
