Ancestors and garments on your back.

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places; Indeed, my heritage is beautiful to me. 

Psalm 16:6

How far back (and wide) can you trace your family tree? 

We just spent a week at my grandpa's house for a memorial for my great-uncle (my late grandma's brother) and it re-awoke a desire I've long had to get better acquainted with my ancestry. My grandpa loves to tease the youngest kids (and I remember him teasing me this way, too) by saying very earnestly, “You know, you have ancestors and garments on your back.”

I can name probably six generations on one branch of my family (the branch that just had the memorial service) and I can give you countless stories—though I'm sure to get the names muddled. My momma, grandma, great aunts, first cousins once removed, and first cousins twice removed are/were big into ancestry, and I'm thankful for the effort they took, pounding those stories into my head. (I'm also grateful for all the charts and books I've been given which traces back all the various branches beyond what I can remember. All my life, we’ve taken time to travel to and explore various ancestral stomping grounds; from my great-grandpa’s pioneer farm in Eastern New Mexico, to a settlement near Hydro, Missouri, to gravestones commemorating lives lived near Roanoke, Virginia, and many others beyond.

My momma and some cousins have deputized me with the task of planning a family reunion next year, so we'll see how that ball rolls! (Hit me up if you’re one of the Victors and interested in joining us!)

My grandma had three sisters and five brothers, and they all stayed close all their lives, no matter how far-flung they all were at various times; their kids grew up playing together and seeing each other constantly. My mom's best friends in childhood were cousins. I am saddened at the sheer impossibility of that cousins closeness these days, with all our siblings and their families scattered far and wide. Technology is a huge boon, but it still doesn't come close to growing up together. 

I have an early memory of a funeral for one of my grandma's older brothers, and I remember even at whatever age I was (still young enough to sit in someone's lap) that the speaker emphasized how my great-uncle had loved Jesus with all his heart and had lived his life obeying God to the best of his ability, and teaching his children to do the same. I remember thinking that I hope that's something people will say about me when I'm gone. Through the years (and many funerals later), that's been the gist of each one in my grandma's family. 

At one point during college, I remember being disgruntled with my "boring" heritage. I was surrounded by exotic stories. One friend who invited us to visit his big Italian family dinner that was just as loud and delightful (and delicious) as you would hope; another had glamorously tropical island upbringing as a native-born Hawaiian; another friend held us spellbound with her self-described  “ghetto," upbringing as a first-generation immigrant from Mexico with hilarious and thrilling stories; another friend was a witty Greek/Texan with more beauty and personality than any one person is entitled to—a living, breathing Scarlett O’Hara (but much nicer; and Greek). And then there was me—some type of Anglo-Saxon mutt from the southwest. I literally had to explain to people why I was both white and from New Mexico (no; I'm not albino; sorry, no habla español; yes, I've seen snow before) and it wasn't until much later that I came to appreciate my heritage. 

Our family came across with the Puritans and Separatists who gave up everything because they did not see how they could walk in obedience to God's word in the government-mandated religious organizations in Great Britain. They were preachers and settlers who fought and sacrificed because they wanted to live in a society that honored God, first and foremost. They were adventurous, courageous, and hard-working, always seeking to build the best life they could for their families. They pioneered out west, hiding their golden-haired little girls from Indian raids and working to make peace with their Native American neighbors. They settled in the prairies and plains and survived on prayers through drought, war, pandemics, and poverty. 

Everywhere they went, they loved Jesus, they raised their children to love Jesus, and they shared him with anyone who would listen. Ours was the sweat, blood, tears, and faith upon which this nation was founded and built, and I never appreciate that as fully as at a funeral of one of that generation—grandparents and great-aunts-and-uncles who survived the Great War, the Depression, and some of whom lived to see this crazy era we are ponderously navigating now. 

This most recent memorial again repeated what I've come to expect and cherish from these services--my Uncle was an incredible farmer and rancher. He loved the Lord with all his heart and he loved the land. He took his grandkids “Easter egg hunting” for newborn baby calves in the spring. He was loyal, creative, whimsical, humorous, and treated everyone he met with consideration and kindness. He always told us all to "Pray for rain." He raised his children to know and love Jesus like he did--and then, at the end, one of my cousins (who was leading the service) mentioned that we knew where he was now, and we would all see him again--but then, if you weren't sure where you were going when you died, please come talk to him after the service--or just about anyone else in the room; we'd all be happy to tell you about Jesus! The room rippled with “amen” and laughter at that point--because it was true. 

All at once, it struck me again how blessed we are as a family. It was my turn to have my little daughter on my lap, experiencing a funeral that will probably be one of her earliest memories, and though there were tears and mourning--because we miss him--it was primarily a time of rejoicing because we know he entered eternity and is now healthy and whole and perfect with his Savior who he had been pursuing his whole life. Besides that, he is reunited with almost all of his siblings and family who have gone before. What a family reunion that must be! 

Listening to this, I felt a kinship with my family beyond our blood-relationship. Most of us are secure in the knowledge that our eternity is safe with Christ--our sins have been paid for, "my life is hid with Christ one high," as the song says. 

I enjoy our cowboy heritage now, but we have an eternal heritage that underlies everything, and we have a hope beyond crops and lifestock and even the liberty and freedom that America was built upon. Our building of “home” here is only the faintest echo, an homage to our true home—and we all know it. Our hope is on Jesus, and His kingdom, and the sacrifice He paid so that we can share in eternity with Him. 

Our history is a trail of faithful hearts who were willing to give everything and were blessed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. 

Now that is a beautiful heritage. 

And be sure to pray for rain.