Over the holidays my 93 year-old grandmother handed to me copies of her mother’s and uncle’s memoirs. My great-uncle and my great-grandmother emigrated from Finland in 1904 and 1913, respectively. In their memoirs, written independently, they recount their lives from earliest memories up to present day (early 1970’s). Reading them has been a most fascinating journey into the past – into the minds and hearts of these two ancestors of mine whom I never really knew and about whom I’d never really asked.

Finland, in those days, observed a strict caste system. My family was of the servant class. In such a society, there’s no working your way up the corporate ladder, or building a better life than your parents had…whichever class you were born into, there you lived, worked and died.

Here’s an excerpt from my great-grandmother’s writings:

It wasn’t long before the village wives began to notice that girl who was big enough to [work as a maid]. Thinking that I was older because of my height, they remarked that such a big girl shouldn’t be eating her parents’ food. Before long, Mother allowed me to be taken to a cottage where an old man lived with his daughter. They had a roomer with a small child. I had to rock this child but sleep usually overcame me. One evening, as I was unsuccessfully fighting sleep, the woman nudged me, commanding, “Don’t sleep! Rock the cradle!” But she allowed me to eat, reasoning, “She’ll stay awake after she eats.” She was mistaken, for the food got left in my mouth and the spoon fell to the floor as sleep took hold of me.
Just then, Father happened to come by and as he picked me up he stated, “You are still too much of a child, too young to work. What can a four year-old do as a maid?” And he carried me home.

Imagine! A four year-old being accused of mooching off her parents! I’m convinced that I don’t assign my 7 and 9 year-old boys enough chores!

The pages are filled with similar accounts of their lives as bond-servants. Despite the hardships, their voices are not filled with bitterness or resentment. Rather, they are full of hope: first, in the Lord as their Shepherd and second, that there was a better life waiting for them across the ocean – in America.

As I read through their manuscripts from the comfort of my climate-controlled home with its full pantry and Tivo, I felt proud of my heritage, but, at the same time, humbled and ashamed. My great-grandmother suffered greatly to build a life in America; a life which was, by no means, a rags-to-riches story. It is a story of strength and endurance of faith, as well as the reclaiming of freedom and dignity as a human being.

That’s a beautify legacy.