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!
2002 Meridian Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
