|
Such
Fun Not Forbidden?
by
Sherlene Hall Bartholomew
The way to meet
fascinating people and to make fast and sure eternal friends is
to get involved in “The Search” after our kindred dead.
Then again,
you might lose a few relatives and friends as you dust off family
skeletons; but once the past settles, the offended emerge from their
safe and dreary closets to rejoin the party and endure just ribbing
by the less fragile. They’re soon back at your side, clacking
about how our particular bones are worth rattling, after all.
I fondly remember
one of my first immersions in the font of love filled by Elijah
for, yes, the dead--but just as blessedly, us the living: (“…and
he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the
heart of the children to the fathers…” Malachi 4:5-6).
I was a fairly
new staffer at the Morristown, New Jersey Family History Center
and was adjusting to the fact that some of our patrons from other
paths saw family history as their passionate quest—an immense
and glorious satiation!
I remember the
day we got our first computer at the center. I arrived there half
an hour early to set up and found a line of excited patrons already
stretching around the chapel corner—all anxious to access
the electron records we now take so much for granted.
One day an elderly
gentleman approached me with some hesitation, confessing that this
was his first try, searching for ancestors. He had brought a lineage
chart showing the names of his grandparents, with their birth and
death dates and places, but that was as far back as he had been
able to go, using family records.
Those were dinosaur-days,
when the IGI emerged from fiche in stake center drawers. Even then,
fiche flew, as we discovered first his grandfather as a son, then
his great-grandfather as a son, and then, again, another father,
as we traced his family back through three generations of God’s
immutably imaged creation.
With each step
back in time, our excitement became more and more palpable. With
every find this man exclaimed, “Oh, yes, this rings true!
That’s a family name, all right! Isn’t this amazing?”
As we stood
up from the reader, he unabashedly gave me a huge bear-hug. Tears
brimming, he asked, “Why didn’t I know about this sooner?
Do you Mormons know what you’ve done for this world? Why this
is as exciting as . . . football!”
I was a bit
choked up, myself. As a former BYU and then U of U frosh English
teacher, I wasn’t used to getting this kind of appreciation
for my efforts--especially (since football came up) from those members
of The Team I was trusted to hand-hold through my course (one of
my more unique temptations—I was at the “U,” doing
graduate work, but still rooting for the arch-rival Cougars of Brigham
Young University. How I could have helped the Cougar cause!).
There were other
great blessings associated with my service at the Morristown Family
History Center. One day the widow of a local minister approached
me with genealogical records her husband had gleaned in earlier
years at the Center. Hearing that I was moving to Utah, she asked
if I would see to it that the temple service was accomplished on
behalf of her husband’s deceased relatives, as documented
on copies she had made of his records and placed in large envelopes
for me to carry.
Knowing that
she was of another faith, I told her how she could submit the records
to a file that did not involve temple ordinance service (today it
would be the Pedigree Resource File).
“We have
had the missionaries in our home, and I want these names taken to
your temple,” she insisted.
“In that
case, I would need a signed letter from you authorizing that course,”
I suggested. She returned later with a letter she not only signed,
but had notarized, with signatures of two witnesses! Since these
records involved the maiden name of one of my sisters-in-law, my
brother and she were grateful to follow through with her request.
I knew Elijah
was still on-duty at the Center
when not much later a good friend and fellow volunteer indicated
his plan to submit 6,000 of his family names, many gleaned in Italy,
for temple ordinance service. I knew he was a convinced Catholic,
so again questioned him closely. His reason wanting their temple
“work” accomplished was so that their names would show
up on the IGI, where so many go first, trying to find leads in the
search for their people. In his mind this would do more to preserve
and honor his family names than if he placed monuments at every
grave.
On my flight
to Utah with such records, while also carrying a disk containing
my own family files, I learned to value their worth. As the plane
descended at a midway-stop, it suddenly lurched and shifted upward.
After we again ascended and leveled, our pilot announced that the
landing gear was not operating properly, so he was diverting our
course to an airport with a longer landing strip (in case we had
to make a belly-slide arrival, I presumed).
Our pilot circled
in an obvious attempt to use up gas before beginning that very long
descent, as passengers around me prayed out loud and said goodbyes,
while others shrieked with terror. A couple in front of me took
apart their seats in an effort to cushion their child and their
own heads.
My prayers were
of the silent kind, but rather urgent, as I watched the ground rise
to the occasion. It’s amazing how a lifetime of remembered
love, undone tasks, and unfilled missions reels by in a flash, when
you think it’s all over!
Then, clear
to my mind, came the thought: “Relax. You carry records of
the dead that must be preserved. If need be, they as angels will
lift the wings of this plane to a safe landing.” The most
beautiful peace came over me then.
That safe landing
was not silent or smooth, but was the most beautiful I ever saw.
People cried, laughed, and hugged, as stewards hurried us out. Once
down the stairs and away from the plane, my calm fell apart. I found
a phone and with shaking hands dialed to tell Dan how our dead save
the living!
I’m intrigued
with my own genealogy, but it seems the Spirit brings unique surprise
when I help someone else’s ancestral quest.
When we lived
in New York, I went with a friend from our Westchester congregation
to “The City,” hoping to look up immigration records
at the Schomburg Center. We had to park several blocks away, so
I was grateful for Mildred’s guide-dog, as we walked through
that particular neighborhood.
Mildred Lederman
with Gypsy
As we entered the impressive building, I saw a picture of Alex Haley
in the foyer, reminding patrons of his great contribution to that
place of learning, designed to help bring identity to the uprooted.
I remembered how exciting it had been, not all that long before,
to attend the World Conference on Records in Salt Lake City, when
Mr. Haley was a featured speaker, and the Tabernacle Choir sang
a rug-raiser composed for that occasion.
Son Daniel was
about ten and had just finished reading Haley’s Roots, so
begged to come with me to the confab. His plan was to wait out the
long line, book in hand, hoping to catch an autograph from this
famous man. After waiting at least forever, we about reached Mr.
Haley, only to see him whisked away to catch a plane. To my surprise,
Daniel’s eyes welled with disappointment--I had not guessed
he cared that much!
My thoughts
returned to the picture before me, and we continued on, viewing
a few more Schomburg displays before Mildred and I went about our
research. About an hour later, I looked up from threading a film
to see no other than Alex Haley, smiling at me from across the room.
I jumped up and hurried over to introduce myself, telling him how
much I enjoyed his speech in Salt Lake and about my son’s
great disappointment.
“Oh,”
said he. “I wish all the world knew how vast your resources
are, there at the Family History Library. Had I only known earlier
about your tremendous collection of black and African records, I
could have saved myself two years in the search for my own roots
and in writing that book!”
Then this gracious
man sat down, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote my son a wonderful
reminder that what is best is worth the wait life’s disappointments
can impose.
That’s
just the start of tales I’ll have to save for later. Next
time I’ll tell you about some of the fascinating Internet
cousins I have found and how you can find yours.
As anybody knows
who has done this just a little, Elijah’s enticings do not
lead to any ordinary path. This is a search for treasure!
Click
here to sign up for Meridian's FREE email updates.
© 2002 Meridian
Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
|
