I have seen variations of this quoted around the internet. But this week it is really speaking to me. It is weighing on me. It is filling me with purpose. It is putting pressure on an already busy life. It is reminding me that I am the chosen.
I have been given boxes, bags, cartons, files, books, photos – an enormous quantity of family treasures. I am the family genealogist. I am the family researcher, the family storyteller, the family archivist. And I love it. I cherish it. I honor it. I respect the import of what I have been asked to do.
But some days, I wonder how I will ever finish the genealogy tasks before me. Then this sweet reminder whispers to my soul that this is not a to-do list. It is a calling. Somewhere along the line I was chosen to do this. And I will do it the very best I can. I will study, preserve, digitize, research, organize, archive, share, teach, tell, and cherish. I will pass on what I have and know to whomever is chosen in the next generation to carry on the great work of telling our family’s story.
We are the chosen.
In each family there is one who seems called to find the ancestors. To put flesh on their bones and make them live again. To tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve.
Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts but, instead, breathing life into all who have gone before. We are the storytellers of the tribe. All tribes have one. We have been called, as it were, by our genes. Those who have gone before us cry out to us: Tell our story. So, we do. In finding them, we somehow find ourselves.
How many graves have I stood before now and cried? I have lost count. How many times have I told the ancestors, “You have a wonderful family; you would be proud of us.” How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot 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 here are bones of my bone and flesh of my flesh. It goes to doing something about it.
It goes to pride in what our ancestors were able to accomplish. How they contributed to what we 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 the fathers fought and some died to make and keep us a nation. It goes to a deep and immense understanding that they were doing it for us. It is of equal pride and love that our mothers struggled to give us birth, without them we could not exist, and so we love each one, as far back as we can reach. 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 they and they are the sum of who we are.
So, as a scribe called, I tell the story of my family. It is up to that one called in the next generation to answer the call and take my place in the long line of family storytellers. That is why I do my family genealogy, and that is what calls those young and old to step up and restore the memory or greet those who we had never known before.
by Della M. Cummings Wright; Rewritten by her granddaughter Dell Jo Ann McGinnis Johnson; Edited and Reworded by Tom Dunn, 1943.
I tried to find the original source of this work and could not. I finally just went with this version and this source that leads nowhere specific. Regardless of when it was written and who wrote it, the words ring true to my genealogists heart. If you have better sourcing, please share!