Family History

I remember reading somewhere that women are the guardians of family history, mainly because our brains are hardwired to assign value to and remember all connecting stories of the different branches of our family trees. I don't know if that's been empirically proven, but I know that it's generally true as far as my own experience is concerned (the one notable exception being my dad, who is definitely our family historian extraordinaire). In any case, I can say with all certainty that I love hearing stories about the people from whom I am descended. There's something special about it - a sense of connectedness with the past, a rootedness that helps me to better understand both myself and the people I love.

One of my favourite stories is about the lady you see pictured above. That's my great-grandmother (don't you love the top hat?), and her life story has always been an inspiration to me. I'm a little fuzzy on all the details, but she grew up in early-20th century rural New Brunswick. She met and married her first husband, who turned out to be a cad and left her with several children and syphilis. With the help of a kind doctor and his wife, she was able to get herself together, and eventually met and married my great-grandfather - the fastest potato-picker in the county :) Unfortunately he was also quite a drinker, so they were never very well-off. He died of lip cancer when my grandmother was quite young, leaving my great-grandmother on her own with far too many children to support.

I can't remember which happened first, but two events took place that must have just broken the poor woman's heart. I think that first she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, a disease which at that point in history was difficult to treat. It was also highly contagious, so she was forced to give most of her children into the care of others - either in orphanages, or with relatives. Can you imagine what that must have been like? She stayed with and was cared for by her aunt, with only my grandmother staying with them, though she was not allowed in to see her mother. Instead, she would sit under her mother's bedroom window, and listen to her sing hymns and pray. Eventually her condition deteriorated to the point that they moved her to a sanitorium in the city, where she stayed until she died. My grandmother was then adopted by a very loving couple who had been unable to have children of their own, but she was separated from the rest of her siblings.

Why do I find that story inspiring? I guess the main reason is that through all that adversity, my great-grandmother persevered. She had the strength of character necessary to pull herself together and get back up each time life knocked her down, accepting help when it was offered, and making do without when there was none. She provided for her family as best she could, and never gave up believing that God loved her. Her faith was a testimony to my grandmother, who has in turn modelled that same faithfulness to my mother and to me.

That's not such a bad heritage to leave your family, is it?