Some people brag about their ancestors, claiming royalty among the crowd. But my Italian ancestors were plain, everyday men and women, laboring by the sweat of their various brows to till the fields, tame the children and collect grapes for winemaking.
I’m sure there were scoundrels among the lot, along with saintly people who lived decent lives. But I won’t take an eraser to my family tree and remove the names of those who ran wild.
Today, mobs in our country are toppling statues of figures whose past offends them. Somehow, they expect historical figures to have spotless track records, although this isn’t possible.
My Aunt Rita told a story about Prohibition, when my grandfather made bathtub wine and then put it in barrels to sell around their East Harlem neighborhood.
He was shrewd when it came to breaking the law, and decided that if the police spotted a sweet little girl riding with him, they wouldn’t stop him. The girl was my aunt, and her father’s ploy worked.
My grandfather was a plasterer, while my grandmother kept house and prepared three lavish meals daily for him and their six children. They locked horns over religion, since he was anti-Catholic and she loved the faith.
My parents weren’t perfect either. My father had a gambling addiction and my mother often ran out of patience and chased the kids around the house, screaming at us. Both parents suffered from depression back when it was shameful to admit such a “weakness.”
All these imperfect people are part of my history. Their photos remain in the family albums, and their blood runs through my veins.
When I recall their sinfulness, I also reflect on their saintly actions. My grandparents raised six children, with five going to college. My parents attained their dream of seeing one daughter receive a graduate degree, while the other gave them grandchildren.
I love my parents, remember them fondly and forgive them their trespasses, just as they forgave mine when I was growing up.
Paul is hailed as one of the greatest evangelizers of Christianity, yet in his past, he presided over the violent deaths of numerous Christians. Mary Magdalene had seven demons when she first met Christ, but later became a faithful follower.
Despite their flaws, churches are named after them because their lives exemplify God’s mercy, which pours out on all of us.
Saint Augustine is the widely respected author of “The Confessions,” but in his youth he was a womanizer, who lived for sensual pleasure. His moment of conversion led him to Christ and healed him forever.
He wrote, “I never have any difficulty believing in miracles, since I experienced the miracle of a change in my own heart.”
Perhaps if I’d read his book in college, I wouldn’t have run with such a wild crowd. Still, I don’t expect God to hold my past against me — and I find comfort in the words of the psalm, “His mercy endures forever.”
Let’s hope the folks knocking over statues also experience a change of heart. Let’s hope they recognize that every family tree has saints and sinners — and sometimes they’re the same person.
Lorraine’s email address is lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com
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