Family Trees and Nationalities

Currently, I'm on Recollection, with the rest of the Seminary community- meaning a 24hourish silent retreat, so no talking. And no getting too involved in the world. In attempting to remain faithful to both those dictates, I'm not on the 'Downs, or on CC, or catching up on LiveJournal comments, or reading up on world news- just here in my "private" blog, putting to "paper" some swirling thoughts that have overwhelmed me this evening. Really, what is a blog but an online journal? An online, publicly available, journal...

Anyway, the first of my two great emotions this evening was prompted by a film we watched in "preparation" for a Recollection talk tomorrow. It wasn't an incredibly inspired "documentary/how-to" type film. It wasn't bad, as such things go (the topic was the "Seven Cirles of Prayer" Not a clue what the title was)- but what struck me was the Englishness of it.

Of course, that is easily explained. The thing was made in England- one ought to expect that. But I'm being silly. What struck an odd chord with me was not that it was English- but how I reacted to the Englishness.

All love of my homeland, and all Filipinophilia of a few posts below aside, I really do like England and things English. The accent, the climate, the landscape. Even (dare I say it in these post-Davem days?) the sarcastically-inclined humour.

This Anglophilia is nothing new. I've known for years that I like things English. Perhaps what did hit me in a funny way is just how intensely I like things English- after quite a while of not thinking of it at all. A quite a while in which cultures more Catholic have predominated in the forefront of my extra-Canadian thought: the French, the Columbian, the Italian, the Filipino.

So here we are watching this not-so-awesome-but-good-message film on prayer, and I'm getting blown away by England. Not so much that I missed the message of the film- but enough that I was breathing in that air of a land rather different from my own. True, the image was 20 years old, but once you remove the 80s hair, clothes, and add a few iPods, you've got today's England...

So I'm stuck pondering: Why? Why do I feel such a vibrant attraction to England? I'm fairly confidant that Tolkien played an ENORMOUS role in that. I don't think it can be stated how deeply Tolkien (the chief author of my latter prepubescent and then all my adolescent years) influenced me. I'm not sure I'm aware how deeply my patterns of speech, writing, and way of thinking were melded. But it's not just Tolkien, of course. Several of my favourite authors were English: C.S. Lewis, Agatha Christie, (dare I say it...) J.K. Rowling- the prominent ones, among others. My own sense of humour, whether thanks to these influences, or independent of them, is highly English in its appreciations.

But that may explain the mechanics of WHY I'm drawn to England, but it does nothing to explain the greater purpose of it. And I do think there is probably a purpose. I suppose there are some things that God just lets happen with no guidance one way or another, or with no purpose that it will ever serve. A preference for two-door cars, or for yellow socks, would be a good example. Although, who knows, maybe there IS a purpose for yellow socks...

My point is, a yearning this steady (we're talking years-long, and growing in intensity) and this strong (I'd really like to be in England) seems highly likely to have some purpose. It could be something formative, such as helping me develop a good sense of humour (something necessary in this crazy life). It may be that someday I'll visit England, and have some life-defining experience. Maybe it was just to get me to have a great patriotic appreciation for our Queen- and she is ours still, whatever some people on this side of the pond may want to do about that.

I don't know, obviously, what it is. The attraction existing in the first place, there's a part of me that would love for God's purpose to be that I be called to live or minister in England. At the same time, the side of me that is very much a homebody, is very much a patriotic Canadian, and is enamoured of his homeland and people, really doesn't want that to be the case at all. A vacation to the land of Tolkien and Thomas More is all very well- but let's not live there!

Which is why this sort of stuff isn't revealed beforehand. I've got a life to live here in the Seminary, and let's not waste it with pinings for what is to come. It is, however, still fun to speculate.

Anyway, that was emotional obsession #1. Emotional obsession #2 was a good deal closer to home.

After the film, I went back to my room, grabbed a Bible, a stack of scrap paper, and a book to put under the paper, to firm it up, and then headed down to 1st-floor lounge to read the Gospel of John (which was, as a side note, a lot of fun. I think it's permissible to talk if you're reading out loud- and reading is, for me, a lot better absorbed when I'm forced to slow down by reading aloud).

It just so happened that the book I had with me was the "Family History" book- in which I feature twice, having second-cousins for two of my Great-Grandmothers. Upon finishing the first six chapters of John, having a dry throat, and not wanting to write a thing down (well, the above English-related stuff was floating in my mind, but I wanted a slightly more public venue), I started browsing the book (not for the first time, let me assure you. I'm positively Hobbit in my love of geneologies).

And I was floored by the emotion. Forget England- this is ME! Sure, I'd love to go to England; I'd love to live there if that's God's plan, but in the meantime- this is where I come from. This is who I am.

Michael, son of Theresa, daughter of Tony and Josie, children (respectively) of Anna and Amelia, daughters (respectively) of John and Alexander, sons of Joseph. Fill in all the other information that I can get at in other family histories (and which crossreference each other so much it's a wonder I don't come from a family of mutants), and I can find you the names, no problem, of THOUSANDS of relatives of mine.

This is only half of my family history, of course, but the other half, the Dutch half, isn't nearly so well researched, so Canadian-based (they're still mostly on the other side of the Pond), or some, well, BIG! I have, literally, hundreds of relatives descended from my Great-great-great-grandfather Joseph. For that matter, I've got three hundred plus relatives descended from ONE of my Great-Grandmas.

The intense feeling of family, of belonging, that came over me in flipping the pages of that book cannot be measured. Those wrinkly old Germans, fat and balding, the old nuns in thick glasses- they would mean nothing to a stranger, but they are my history to me. Many of them -most of them- I've never met, but they're still family.

I know I'm a bit more sentimental about family than most. It comes from coming from a good one, to begin with. It's also somewhat genetic- Grandpa had it too. He knew EVERYBODY. Bunnock tournaments were sometimes trying to go to with him, but awesome at the same time for the same reason, because he knew every third person- and how they were related.

To tie the two threads of this ENORMOUS discourse together, I would love to visit England, and barring a premature death, I will. I'm ready and willing to LIVE there (for a time or for a life) if God calls me to.

But I'm glad I was born who I am: the son, grandson, great-grandson, great-great-grandson, great-great-great-grandson of German, Catholic, by way of Russia, bunnock-playing, ancestors. Everyone, I figure, takes (or should take) pride in their patrimony. But this is mine (even if it comes off my mother's side)- and so I love it the most. Naturally.