Stories
Who are we? What do we believe?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about death – mostly because I’ve been consumed by the study of family. I made the mistake of getting bored and looking for a task to fill the time as I waited for work to catch up with me. Those who know me pretty well will tell you that a Susan bored is a terrible thing to watch. So I attacked one of the projects that I intended to do when I gave up my classroom. Long ago when my children were small, an older friend encouraged me to gather together the details of my family while those who could tell me were still alive. I did that and then tucked it all away when I had to give family and work my full attention. The boxes filled with notes and photocopies of obituaries and pictures of folks long dead have been waiting for my return for the last 30 years. A couple of weeks ago, I opened Pandora ’s Box. It’s been scary ever since as I tried to reconnect to the genealogy that I started in my youth.
More hours than I can admit to have been spent reading about dead people and trying to figure out who they are or were. I know things about them such as when and where they were born. I know who their children were and the names of their husbands and wives – yes often more than one as having spouses die while still young was hardly uncommon. I have hardy souls in my family who watched as many as three wives (or sometimes husbands) die before accepting that they would have no partner in this life. I know where they lived and where they moved to – most of them arriving along the east coast about 1700, moving to the southern states, and then across the land to finally arrive in Texas. I know where their marriage ceremonies were conducted and sometimes who performed it. I know where they died, what cemetery they are buried in, and occasionally the cause of death or reason (such as being shot by a son-in-law – beware of making your daughter’s husband mad).
If my ancestor was in a war, I know details of his company, regiment, or troop. I know if he was in the infantry, artillery, or cavalry. If he served in the Civil War, I know which side he fought on (and I can tell you a Romeo and Juliet tale of two Southern families on opposing sides whose children married). I can even tell you how much the widows of these soldiers received as a government pension.
Some of the information comes from graveyards filled with crosses or headstones on which tiny snippets of our life information are recorded.
Some of this information comes from the traditional family bible such as this one that is usually on my credenza at home. In it are recorded dates and names of life and death events from the Tompkins family. Tucked inside are yellowed clippings of news accounts and obituaries.
In all this information about people’s lives, in all these details, something gets lost. Something important.
Consider the obituaries of two different but very fine men.
One of these was a totally moral man – the most moral man I’ve ever met. For him the truth was the truth. There was no halfway point – no grey. His sense of rightness was engrained so deeply that I don’t believe he could have ever lied or cheated or stolen or ducked a responsibility – even if he had wanted to – which he didn’t because that was the foundation of all he was. You knew that if he said it, it was so. One of the things he said was that he didn’t believe in a god. He didn’t preach it. But if you asked him, he would tell you his truth – that he had no belief in any life hereafter and surely no faith which would include a Christian god or a Jesus who died for us.
The other man was also moral. His sense of right was an important part of this gentle person, but he was also a Christian in every sense of the word. He believed in Christ and he told you. Not in a “preachy” way – just when the moment was right. If you stood beside him at church, he’d tell you that he prayed for you and his words were meant to tell you that he loved you. I have to admit that being the recipient of this information made me squirm with the embarrassment that the young feel when parents overstep societal boundaries. It would have appeared to an observer that his Christian love wasn’t falling on very fertile ground. His evangelism seemed futile.
Both men lived good lives. Both men brought forth families of whom they could be proud. But other than a line in the obituary of one stating that he was a member of a church was there any indication that his life was God driven. As I continue to search through records and accounts of my ancestor’s lives, I am often struck by this anomaly. In almost no case is there any indication of the belief that guides these members of my family. Occasionally, there will be a statement in an obituary that includes a brief mention that “He was a Baptist.” That’s it. Nothing more.
Instead, I have letters that explain how some of these ancestors felt about a particular war. I have one that talks about Carson’s connection to our family. I have another that expresses grief over a child who died too young. What I don’t have are any that talk about the writer’s belief in Christ or god or life after death.
Considering the importance of the spiritual side of one’s life, this is rather amazing. Think about it. We enter family records in a bible. We keep baptismal records as an important document. We marry in churches. And we bury in them. We erect crosses in cemeteries in memory of a crucifixion. Yet we rarely if ever talk about our beliefs to family members. We surely don’t record our spiritual side in letters or other accounts. And we wonder why we aren’t very good at evangelism with perfect strangers. Maybe a place to start is at home. And then perhaps we could move on to others. And if we think our efforts are futile or met with resistance, remember with me the man who prayed beside me in spite of my apparent lack of enthusiasm.