By Greg Venne

“I love my ancestors even though they died.” Our 5-year-old granddaughter asked my wife to write those words in her diary. We don’t know what motivated her request, but she seemed sincere.

Old family photos decorate the walls of the homes of both my children. Most of those pictures from the Venne side were taken by my grandfather. But a photo of my father standing near his grandfather graces each home. My children heard my father talk of the adoration he held for his grandfather. And I can’t tell you how obvious it was that my children loved my father and my mother as well.

If you want to imagine our family photos, look at your own. To know their stories, think of those you heard. For most of us, we heard of hard times, poverty, sorrow and loss as well. If we listen carefully, we also learn of pride and pretension, outright foolishness, and even serious indiscretion. We were told not to repeat the tales of the indiscretions and calamities. This ensured they would be retold with unverified embellishments.

One day last fall, an old high school friend and I took a day to return to our little hometown. For entertainment, we walked through cemeteries. One contains the remains of my mother and father and my mother’s mother and father. Their graves nestle among a good number of aunts and uncles, ancestors if you will.

My friend also pointed to a host of his ancestors who had made a prominent mark in the small farming community, some dating into the 1800’s. He spoke with affection as I did.

I know my ancestors carried a deep faith, at times a foolish faith, a faith that faltered, and for some a faith that was rejected. And even though they have died, I too love my ancestors.