A PRAYER FOR GENEALOGIST

Lord, help me dig into the past And sift the sands of time That I might find the roots that made This Family Tree of mine Lord, help me trace the ancient roads on which my fathers trod And led them through so many lands To find our present sod Lord, help me find a dusty book, Or anchient manuscript That's safely hidden now away In some forgotten crypt Lord, let it bridge the gap that haunts My soul when I can't find That missing link between some name That ends the same as mine. Anonomus

AN IRISH BLESSING May there always be work for your hands to do; may your purse always hold a coin or two; may a rainbow be certain to follow each rain; may the hand of a freind always be near you; may GOD fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

THE STORY TELLERS We are the chosen. My feelings are that in each family there is one who seems called to find the ancesters. To put flesh on their bones and make then live again, to tell the family story and to feel that they some how know and approve. To me, doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts, but instead, breathing life into all who have gone before. We are the story tellers of the tribe. All tribes have one. We have been called as if by our genes. Those who have gone before call out to us. Tell our story.And so we do. In finding them we some how find ourselves. How many graves have I stood before and cried? I have lost count. How many times have I told the ancesters you have a wonderful family you would be proud of us? How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt some how there was love there for me? I can not say. It goes beyond just documenting facts. It goes to who I am and why I do the things I do. It goes to seeing a cemetery about to be lost forever to weeds and indifference and saying I can't let this happen. The bones are bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. It goes to doing something about it. It goes to pride in what our ancesters were able to accomplish. How they contributed to what they are today. It goes to respecting their hardships and losses, their never giving in or giving up, their resoluteness to go on and build a life for their family. It goes to deep pride that they fought to make and keep us a nation. It goes to a deep and immense understanding that they were doing it for us. That we might be born who we are. That we might remember them. So we do. With love and caring and scribing each fact of their existence, because we are them and they are us. So as a scribe called, I tell the story of my family. It up to that one called in the next generation to answer that call, and take their place in the long line as family storytellers. That is why I do my family genealogy, and that is what calls those young and old to step up and put flesh on the bones.

THE CENSUS TAKER The first day of census, and all through the land, the pollster was ready ------ black book in hand. He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride; His book and some quills were tucked close by his side. A long winding ride down a road barely there. Toward the smell of fresh bread waifting up through the air. The woman was tired, with lines on her face. And wisps of brown hair she kept tucking back into place. She gave him some water-----as they sat at the table. She answered his questions-----as best as she was able. He ask of her children-----yes she had quite a few. The eldest was twenty, the youngest not quite two. She held up a toddler, with cheeks round and red. His sister, she whispered was napping in bed. She noted each person that lived there with pride, and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside. He noted the sex, the color, and the age----- The marks from the quill soon filled up the page. At the number of children, she nodded her head, and he saw her lips quiver for three that were dead. The places of birth, "she never forgot," was it Kansas?, or Utah?, or Oregon? ----or not. They came from Scotland, of that she was clear. But she wasn't quite sure just how long they had been here. They spoke of employment, of schooling and such, they could read some and write some, ---Though really not much. When the questions were answered his job was done. So he mounted his horse, and he rode toward the sun. We can imagine his voice loud and clear " God Bless you all for another ten years. Now imagine a time warp-----it's now you and me; as we search for the people on our family tree. We squint at the census, and scroll down so slow, as we search for that entry from long, long ago. Could they only image on that day long ago, that the entries they made would affect us this way? If they knew. Would they wonder at the yearning we feel? And the searching that makes them so increasingly real. We can hear if we listen the words that they impart. Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.