Getting Help from the Other Side

Over on my "Pile o' Pendleys" page I list my grandmother's lineage to Elder William Brewster, spiritual leader of the pilgirms who came to this country on the ship Mayflower. What I did not tell there is the story of how I came to have the document which proves this.

The document is a letter from the Mayflower historical society written in 1905 to Kate Thomas (my grandmother's aunt who raised her) listing each generation from her father (John L.V. Thomas) back to William Brewster.

I have a dim memory of my mother showing me the document when I was a very little girl.  I remember being in awe of that letter, so old and so important. I handled it gingerly, imagining the lives of the generations of my family listed there in faint, curly script.
.

My mom had the best of intentions for gathering and preserving information about our family. She really did mean well. But she did not have an organized bone in her body. Her way of dealing with "stuff" was to put it in a box to sort through and put away later. For most things, later never came. So her closets, the garage and just about any other available space in her home were filled with many, many boxes of hodge podge gathered up items that had nothing to do with each other. There was no filing system. There was no order at all. As a result of her disorganized, chaotic way of living, she lost the Mayflower letter early on and never could find it despite several frantic searches.
.

After my mother died in 1983 I had the job of flying to Arizona to clean out her house to prepare it for sale. It was quite a chore. Room after room was filled with things I had no idea what to do with. Much of it had tremendous sentimental value, but not anything that would be of much worth to anyone else. Since most of my siblings lived several states away it would have been expensive to ship boxes of things none of us had seen for many years. So most of it got sent to the local thrift shop or just outright thrown away. I rented a big dumpster which was delivered to the driveway of the house where I'd grown up. I spent many hours tossing away mementos of my childhood with tears streaming down my face.
.

After I finished with the house stuff I went to the garage. By that time I was tired, sore, and emotionally exhausted. I took one look at that garage and became totally overwhelmed. It was floor to ceiling boxes stacked in rows three deep on each side with just a little path to walk between them. Where would I even begin?
.

I opened up several of the boxes that were easy to get to. I felt like an archaeologist sifting through layers of a life. I found scraps of the fabric I had tried to make a dress out of in home ec class when I was in eighth grade. (Emphases on TRIED because I was a complete failure at sewing!) Why had she kept that? Under the cloth were piles of Campbell soup labels she had saved for some fund raiser at the school. Under that were her 1964 tax files and receipts. Under that were newspaper clippings about various people she knew. Under that were ...well, you get the idea. It was piles and piles of more STUFF that had meant something to her but probably should all just get thrown out.
.

Discouraged and tired, covered in grime and sweat, I decided I had enough. I put down the box and headed for the door. As I moved to leave the garage I got a DISTINCT impression that said STOP. It was not a voice that I heard with my ears. But it was as clear a feeling as if someone were standing right next to me. I turned all around to look, reassuring myself that no one was there. Again I moved to leave.

STOP!

The second time the feeling came it was undeniable. I did not understand it. But I knew I could not leave that garage. I was to do something. But what?

I stood quietly in the garage for several minutes, gathering my thoughts. I began to pray, asking Father in Heaven to guide me to know what he would have me do.
.

Then, in a way I cannot explain in any sort of linear, logical fashion, I was DIRECTED to open a very specific box. Mind you this was not a box that was easy to get to. Out of the dozens, maybe hundreds of boxes that were in that garage, I got a distinct impression I was supposed to open one particular box that I had to move many others to get to.
.

When I finally got to THE box, I had a complete sense of confusion about what I was doing. It made no sense. Why was this box any more special than any of the rest of the junk that was stored out there? For goodness sakes, why didn't my mother ever throw anything away?
.

With a tired, discouraged sigh, I began sorting through the box to try to figure out why I was getting such a strong feeling. Again, I lifted out layer after layer of things that were sentimental to my mother, but of absolutely no use to me. There were things from her time as a cub scout den leader. There were papers from the time she served as president of the PTA. Under that was a bunch of stuff that looked like grocery lists, clipped obituaries, and out right junk. I thought, "this is stupid" and turned around to leave again. This time I got such a physical shock, it was as if someone were standing right there by me and grabbed me by the shoulders, saying LOOK! I know that makes no sense. But that is what I felt. 
.
So, feeling like I was losing my mind, I went the rest of the way through all the mess in that box. Then there, at the very bottom, there were two things: the letter from the Mayflower Society documenting my lineage to William Brewster and my grandmother's report card from the first grade.

As soon as my fingers touched those papers, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Not MY relief. But it was as if I were feeling the relief of whatever presence had directed me to search that particular box that day. I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that even though my eyes could see no one, I was not alone.
.

I believe with all my heart that our ancestors are waiting for us to find them. They are eager to have us learn of their lives and to feel a connection to them. I know that our kindred dead are depending on us to complete the necessary temple ordinances so they can progress in the next stage of their eternal spiritual journey. I recognize that some folks think that is a kooky idea. But to me it is as real as watching the seasons change.
.

I know that day in the garage,  I was guided to find a record that will have important significance in my family for years to come.  I know that when I get stuck in doing genealogy research, if I am patient and prayerful, I will at times be given help from the other side. It will not always be as dramatic as this particular experience. But I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that we are connected to others who went before us and this work of searching out and documenting family history matters.
.

I am grateful to my mother, who despite her complete lack of organization, did teach me to have a love of genealogy. I am also grateful to my ancestors who helped me find this special link between them and me.