During the sermon yesterday by the female lay pastor at the small church, I wondered about the legacy my and my wife's ancestors left in the formation of the Presbyterian religious sect. My wife and I have lived together solely because we met at a Presbyterian church-sponsored woodland camp (or rather, our friendship formed because we shared a week with other teenage campers; cohabitation and marriage were indirect results of our friendship).
After a lunchtime meeting with a colleague today, who taught me in our college days together to hold a legitimate job, no matter what else I may do to make a living, I picked up a Blu-Ray disc copy of "Bolt" for my wife at the local movie rental store, and sat down with a cat to read about the history of Scotland and Presbyterianism.
When I was very young, I recall my parents attending events tied to the celebration of Highland Scots in the mountains of western North Carolina, where we lived at the time. If they spoke of our genetic heritage during that period in my life, I don't remember. Only in my late teen years did my father and I tour parts of North Carolina and Virginia where our heirs established lives for themselves in the so-called wilderness.
My father often spoke (and speaks) of our famous male ancestor, Colonel John Sawyers, who I've mentioned fought in the American Revolutionary War:
John Sawyers was born in Virginia in 1745, shortly after his parents arrived from England, who early settled in Augusta County, Virginia. In 1761 young Sawyers was engaged on Colonel Byrd's abortive expedition, and in other frontier service against the Indians. In 1768, he with others explored the Holston Valley, early removed to that frontier, and served at Point Pleasant on Christian's Cherokee campaign, and on the Chickamauga expedition in 1779, and led a company at King's Mountain. Settling in what is now Knox County, Tennessee, he was made a Major, then a Colonel, and twice chosen a member of the Legislature. He died November twentieth, 1831, aged eighty six years.
We know almost nothing about the personal lives of our ancestor's ancestors, though many have tried. Through Internet research, I have traced some of them to England in the 1500s. Somewhere I have the chart I made of the lineage but right now I can't remember the areas of Great Britain, only my ancestors' [supposed, unverifiable] names. According to my reading today, parts of Scotland and England changed ownership, especially in the lowland areas of Scotland, generally near Hadrian's Wall. I gather that my ancestors in that area may well have emigrated to Ireland during the 1600s, settling temporarily until the promise of a better life lured them to North America. There's a mix of stories that they came either from England or Ireland, marking them as Scots-Irish. No matter, their religion of choice in America was Presbyterian.
Thus, yesterday, I joined a small group of people, led by a young female music leader from Oakwood College, in singing church hymns, both traditional and "modern".
Membership in Presbyterian Churches has plummeted in recent years. When my wife and I visited Philadelphia many years ago on vacation, we stopped at the Presbyterian Historical Society office and enjoyed the visit, learning about the history of Presbyterianism in the colonial days of this country. I've sinced learned that the Presbyterian sect in Korea is the largest in the world. The sect enjoys many members on the African continent as well. What amazes me even more is that the little church around the corner from us, with its 30 or 40 weekly attendees, was home to a Japanese-born Buddhist-turned-Christian minister named Washio Ishii, who tended his flock here from 1963 to 1989. We were fortunate to meet him on Sunday. We watched a young African-American woman lead our singing there, too.
In a world where human interaction depends on ever-fickle crowd intolerance, I am pleased to see that tolerance survived and flourished in the cove long before I called it home in 1987.
I have sat here in blogs past and asked myself what happiness is and who or where I want to be in the moments ahead of this one. I know my self image is one focused on finding peaceful moments in which to live, no matter whether its actual form is imperfect, pitted and aged like an apple left in a kitchen window, the skin shriveling but retaining something of its younger shape.
I sit here and watch the headlines come and go, announcing other humans' intention to shape history. I relish the relative anonymity that marks my life. The observations I make, the ensuing humor, and memories of moments I recall with gladness, they sit with me like old friends, comforting me with a pat on the back, a reassuring hug, a welcoming handshake or simple nod of recognition.
My ancestors lived in interesting times. We all do. We all have reformation choices to make, whether we know it or not. I descended from a line of anonymous humans whose choices I know practically nothing about. Yet, I sit here, living proof of their existence and their choices.
I owe no debt to anyone. Legally and mentally, I committed my body to my wife's keeping for the duration of our lives together. If nothing else, that is the gratitude I've shown my ancestors for their behavior. I continue to adapt to my surroundings, although I have many habits in my behavior that I will not change (like brushing my teeth nightly).
I wonder what reformation I am part of. Only History can tell. With no offspring to share my history, I'm sure History will keep my participation silent. It is enough that I was here. The miracle of my existence is all I ever needed to know. Perhaps my reformation is all that ever mattered, but something I will never know.
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