I realized how much cowboy blood I have. I get a little restless.
Both of my grandparents fought in WWII; one in the Navy in the Pacific as an assistant medic, the other in the army in Europe in the Battle of the Bulge.
My great-grandfather fought in WWI for Germany and earned the Iron Cross, which is the equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Honor. One of my great grandparents was a Catholic and one was a Protestant—they married in Europe. They joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and when Hitler came into power and rising in 1933, they immigrated to America.
My ancestors are pioneers, figuratively and literally.
One of my ancestors was a body guard of Joseph Smith. He also worked on the Nauvoo temple—one of his journal entries looked like this: “Pushed a wheelbarrow 18 miles today.”
I’m sure we all have something in our blood we can be proud of. I know there’s the dirty and disgusting also. But I am choosing to find identity in the triumphs of my blood, my ancestors.
I don’t care about the failures when I feel the pride of victorious facts. They meant something to the people around them, or at least me.
Now it is to me, this Friday, to begin to do something that my grandchildren will find gratitude in. It will and must be something courageous, something worth living for.