In the middle of the ranch on a lonely and beautiful hilltop, miles away from anything, is a lilac shrub. Woody trunks and sparse patches evidence its age. It blooms wonderfully in the spring, though a little wearily, cascades of purple blossoms and glorious fragrance. It is all that remains of a homestead from some 100 years ago or so.

Out in front of our house is another lilac bush, which is also splendidly covered in pale lavender blossoms each spring, with an equally splendid fragrance. A third shrub blooms in front of my husband’s parents’ house, six miles north on the ranch. These two lilacs are transplants from the lonely lilac on the hilltop homestead, and they have bloomed faithfully for decades.

I wonder what the homesteader and his wife were imagining as they dug a hole and settled the roots of their shrub in the ground. I’m sure it was a tiny shrub at the time, and who knows where it came from, whether there was someone in Rapid City who sold them, or whether it was a shrub they brought west with them, similar to the Oregon Trail Rose, brought with pioneers as they blazed trails westward, leaving their fingerprints in the form of beautiful yellow roses scattered across the west.

What a beautiful and tangible act of hope and optimism. How lasting that little investment in the future!

Had they any idea when they firmed the dirt around the roots how the lilac would outlast their homestead, their dreams, themselves? I don’t know anything about them, what their plans or dreams were, what they did for a living when the homestead dream didn’t pan out (since most didn’t), whether they had children or how successful they were, or where they came from in the world before they claimed their homestead land. There isn’t a stick or a stone left of their dwelling place, or any outbuildings. Not even the faintest evidence of a foundation, or a well or cellar. Just the lilac, and a patch of irises.

But I do know one thing – They pictured a future. Enough to bring a lilac with them to their homestead. Enough to take a spade to the hard and rocky hilltop and sink in some lilac roots. Enough to haul water for it to survive that first couple of years before it could take care of itself.

How do we look toward the future? Or are we so invested in the present and in our little personal pronouns that we don’t bother trying to leave something for the future? We are products of a culture that would rather spend $5 on a fancy coffee drink at a drive-through that will be gone in 15 minutes than spend $5 on a flowering plant that will bring enjoyment year after year. We tend to think in terms of the here and now, our needs, our enjoyment, our fleeting pleasure, our experiences. If we won’t reap the benefits, we don’t do the work. If it takes hard work, few people will do it. And consequently so little gets left behind for the next generation.

It makes me ponder what I’ll leave behind. And what I want to leave behind. What fingerprints will I leave? What skills will I pass down? What will I teach? Whose life will I touch? And in what ways? Sometimes the smallest ways are the most profound.

As they planted their lilac, I doubt they imagined that 100 years later three generations of a ranching family would continue to enjoy a descendent of their humble shrub. Three generations of ranch wives would bring the fragrance and beauty into their kitchens. I doubt they imagined that their hope and optimism, made tangible in their lilac, would continue to grace two simple ranch yards a few miles from their homestead. But what joy and beauty they brought.