Everyone has a story. Today you will read part of mine. Bits and pieces of my story are found in the details of our journey to Ireland. It was a trip in the planning for years, but most importantly, it was a trip born of faith.
I have never in my life been to a place where I felt such a pull, such a profound and immediate affection. Everywhere I went, I was told that I looked Irish, or that I looked like an O’Leary or a McCourt. Even while reading local histories, I heard a voice similar to the way I write and express myself. I saw myself in the faces of my relatives in Derry who I didn’t know I had until my trip to Ireland. I found that my ancestors left a legacy of faith to their children that is alive still in me.
When I met one of my cousins, named Mary McCourt, a Wednesday morning Mass had just concluded. We had gone to speak with the Parish Priest, to fish for more details about the history of the parish. I wasn’t expecting to meet a relative. The priest introduced us. Mary wrapped me in a warm embrace, thrilled she said that we would come to find them. Then she looked me in my eyes and asked me how my faith was. I was able to return her gaze and tell her my faith was strong. The O’Kanes, who helped us find William McCourt’s grave marker the day before, had told me a story of my great uncle William James McCourt and how when he reached his later years, he would walk to the Church each day after his midday meal to sit and pray for an hour or so before walking home.
Because of family history work, I am able to claim that legacy of faith and understand that such faith is a gift that runs deep in my DNA. It is that gift that led me to the waters of baptism. I had always wondered why it was so easy for me to embrace the gospel. Now, I understand.
One day in Ireland, we were searching yet another cemetery. (Of the dozens we visited, there were only two where we found my people.) On this particular day, we hadn’t yet been in a cemetery where I could claim a marker. I was praying fervently asking that God would show me “just one.” Then the Spirit whispered loud enough for me to hear: “Nancy, I can’t show you something that isn’t here.” It was another moment for me to pause and to listen. God isn’t going to create records for me that don’t exist or gravestones that aren’t there, but He will guide me to find, in truly miraculous ways, the bits and pieces left by those who have gone before.
Turns out that that moment in that old Irish cemetery was a lesson for me to apply more broadly. Too often I am asking the wrong questions. I get in the way of what God wants to show me or teach me. My question in the cemetery should have been “Is there something here I should see?” Now that is a question I could be asking every single day, in every single interaction: “Is there something here You want me to see or understand? I give thanks for that spiritual insight. Once again, family history work has changed my heart.
Every step on Irish soil was richly rewarding because of the time spent beforehand searching online, piecing the puzzle pieces together and doing the temple work, one covenant at a time to link my generations. I have come to deeply believe that the temple work I have done – slowly, over time – has freed or in some way inspired those on the other side to help me in my work. I have had clear impressions and promptings of ancestors assisting and rejoicing in temple work. I also have come to believe that sacred ordinances can heal family wounds and bind up the sorrows of the past. Let me explain.
In our brief time with my relatives in Derry, I learned that my great grandmother Mary Jane McCourt had had a baby when she was only 14 years old. She was subsequently sent to America, a pretty common experience for girls in her circumstance. She left her daughter, her parents and 8 siblings behind — no doubt with a shadow of shame upon her. Mary Jane never saw her family in Ireland again and my living relatives in Derry were thrilled to be able to hear the good that had come through the generations. My cousin Mary said “I feel you have come to heal us.” Everyone has a story. None of our stories are without sorrow and pain and healing can come in all different ways.
My ancestors, for the most part, were poor and illiterate. They lived through the Great Famine, through a harsh life mining on the Copper Coast and through hundreds of years of religious persecution which forced them to worship in secret at a hidden spot in the woods by a river – not unlike how I imagine the place described as the Waters of Mormon. I have come to understand the poor and illiterate in Ireland left a light footprint. However, I was blessed to walk where they once walked, feel the love of the land they inhabited, and understand better the harshness of the circumstances they endured. I scanned the landscapes that haven’t changed much in the hundreds of years that have passed and I felt awe. Awe for their courage and strength. Awe for their love of family. Awe for their faith.
Finding my family has been slow and painstaking work. By doing it I have come to see that it is a work that is not only intended to save our dead, but is also intended to save us.
My work digging into the past to find my people has also turned my heart to the future. I have come to believe — or at least hope — that my work in the Spirit World may one day include teaching my ancestors the gospel of Jesus Christ. This feels so very right and true. I will no doubt ask for the Irish corner of heaven.
There is still much to figure out. There are just as many unanswered questions as before. And work and family obligations and church service will still require much of my time and attention. But my heart is eternally drawn out to my ancestors who have gone before. I have felt their love and interest in me just as they have felt my love for them. That is a gift from God I will strive to treasure and honor. It is a gift that has changed me.
– Nancy Nebeker, Little Cottonwood Ward, Granite View Stake