The Sacred People of Ancestry

They are family, distant maybe in miles but not in blood, that connection which is redder, richer, old blood, the sincere blood of the ages running deep into the earth's past.  I think of this as the nourishing blood that grows great families.  Such was the case this last weekend as the remnant of my paternal family came to call.  They are few, a true remnant, three quilt squares that make up a dear blanket of family warmth.  They come from Detroit, where their fathers fled the difficult poverty of southern life, worn thinner by a world war, to the north's promise of work, building cars and commerce that fueled much of the abundance of the late 20th century.  They are the connection to the old black-and-white photos saved in our parents' scrapbooks, old boxes, and hallway picture frames.  People we never knew but whose good blood now runs through me and mine.  It is always good to see these few three.  To renew the ties that bind, to sit in the shade and piddle over the long past, to eat, drink and be merry, to hold hands and pray and know as we are known.  We worshiped together in the church of our ancestors, visited the haunting homes that housed our struggling elders in an America that is much longed for today.  Oh the blood of land people, those that lived on what his good earth provided, so kind in their rich abundance of children, able to pass on and on and on the family that now spreads out because of their calloused hands, bent backs, and determined spirit.  To say my heart was renewed this weekend would be an understatement…my soul, heart, and mind sing with the blood of ages…even that sacred Blood of the Cross;  

“Blest be the tie that binds

our hearts in Christian love;

the fellowship of kindred minds

is like to that above.

When we are called to part,

it gives us inward pain;

but we shall still be joined in heart,

and hope to meet again.” 

The blood gathers at Fair Haven.

 

The home my dad's mom, Mamaw
lived in as a child.