I grew up thinking I was one of those “Heinz 57” people with a genetic makeup that spans the globe. Well, not the globe, but the European continent, anyway. When asked my nationality, my family name, I’d have to answer, “Well….it’s complicated.”
Until a few years ago, I had no clear idea where my dad’s family originated. My grandfather ran away from home to join the army during World War I. Too young to join legally, he ran away to escape a wicked stepmother, so I’m told. But, since he was underage, he lied about his last name and said he was 18. According to my father, though, he didn’t know if grandpa’s name was originally Boice, and he changed it to Bice in the lie, or vice versa—then changed back when he got caught by the Army and sent home. So for the longest time, I didn’t know if I was really a Bice or a Boice!
A friend with an Ancestry.com account came to the genealogical rescue. Turns out our Bice ancestors altered the name numerous times through the years: Bice, Boice, Buice…. We were able to trace the line back to the 15th century. My great-, great-, great- (however many it would be) grandfather hailed from the Netherlands. I had no idea. Turns out when I was acting goofy as a kid and grandma on mom’s side said, “Scotty, I think you’re Dutch!” she was right!
Who knew?
My dad’s mother was originally a Bushman from western Pennsylvania. Her grandparents owned a farm near Gettysburg; relics from the Civil War battle discovered on their farm are on display in the museum there. Apparently, Bushmans immigrated from Germany. That said, I don’t have a clue my great-grandmothers’ ancestry. My guess is they were probably western European, too.
Mom’s side of the family is a bit clearer. “O’Hare” says it all, right? Not all…just half. Her mom, Elsie Faires married Fred O’Hare and created offspring that were products of the British Isles. The Faireses emigrated from England when the United States of America were still un-united colonies. One of my ancestors fought for our independence in the late 1770s. Though I haven’t joined the organization, I understand I could be a part of the Sons of the American Revolution.
O’Hare, of course, is Irish. Given the thousands that fled Ireland during the great potato famine in the mid-1800s, I assumed my great-, great-grandparents came on one of those famine ships. I learned, however, they were already here before the blight hit.
Partly because of my ancestry and partly because of its native beauty, a trip to Ireland is on our bucket list (as is Italy – Chris’s roots). Pre-Covid, I looked into a variety of travel options, found some great deals, learned the best time to go (and that’s not when the great deals are in effect!), and seriously considered scheduling an Irish adventure. Thanks to COVID, doesn’t look like that’ll happen anytime soon.
But because of the interest, I was drawn recently to a fascinating article about a couple—the husband having Irish roots—who went in search of his ancestral turf in a tiny town in Ireland. More a village. But this is where his great, greats were from. [For the life of me, I can’t find that article, so I’m going from memory.]
After a day of travel, the couple arrived in the village, a sparsely populated spot having nothing more than a church, a couple of stores, a few cottages, and the obligatory pub.
Hungry and thirsty, they entered the pub looking for nourishment and refreshment. Looked like the whole village was there, everyone engaged in vibrant conversation.
Until they walked in.
Heads turned in their direction; the place fell silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed them as they made their way to a couple of seats. Finally, the guy behind the bar piped up.
“Where ya from?”
The room full of silent patrons leaned in to hear the answer.
“Um,” hubby replied nervously, “just got in from the US.”
“What brings ya here?”
“My family came from this area…wanted to see where my roots are.”
“What’s the name?”
“O’Shea” [full disclosure—I don’t think that was the name…but it was definitely Irish!]
“O’Shea! They’re O’Sheas!” shouted the interrogator.
With that, the place erupted! Shouts of “Welcome,” slaps on the back, offers to buy a drink, pick up the tab.
They were family.
They were welcomed. Warmly welcomed!
So, to help fund our someday trip to Ireland, I must find out where my O’Hare ancestors lived!
A Grand Reception!
Anyway, the grand reception offered the newcomers to the village reminds me of a grand reception awaiting all God’s children.
Nationality won’t matter at all. Some will show up from the United States. Others from China. Irish, Italian, Kenyan, Ugandan, Brazilian, Peruvian, Indian, Filipino, Polish, Russian, Korean (from the north and south), Mexican—people from every tribe and tongue and nationality will converge on this one place.
And no one will ask, “Where ya from?” as if the answer might disqualify from being welcomed.
If there were any questions asked (and frankly, none will be necessary!), the only one would be, “What’s the family?”
And each in his own tongue will reply, “Family of God, brother (or sister) of Jesus.”
They can answer that way because of a couple of key passages from the Bible.
“…to all who did receive [Jesus], who believed in his name, [God] gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.”
– John 1:12-13
Believing in the name of Jesus—that is, trusting in Him, depending upon Him—authorizes a person to become a child of God, to enter His family!
And speaking of Jesus and those who trust Him, thereby entering the family,
“…[Jesus] is not ashamed to call them brothers, saying, ‘I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will sing your praise.’”
– Hebrews 2:11-12
“Family of God, brother of Jesus”
And with that, the place will erupt in a joyous welcome!
The Apostle Peter looks forward to this:
“For in this way there will be richly provided for you an entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
— 2 Peter 1:11
Honestly, I can’t really comprehend all that “entrance” will involve. But that it will be “richly provided” speaks of generosity, not paucity. Of celebration, not hesitation. Of joy, not reluctance.
And all it takes is being in the right family!
