REFLECTION


The following is fiction, but based loosely on the story of an ancestor:

 Since I was a small boy, I have been captivated by a frustrating but hopeful dream. I see myself standing on a mostly barren prairie, calling the name of someone, over and over again. I cannot find this person and I search till I am frantic and exhausted. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t think of anything else until I finally find this someone sitting under a lonely shade tree, near the brow of a hill. The two of us run to each other’s arms, crying and filled with immense joy, so much joy that I wake up. This dream seemed to occur hundreds of times as a young person but not as often as I grew older. Still it was there, somewhere in my deepest feelings.


I was born, Johnnie Wray, in 1826 in Donegal, Ireland the son of a potato farmer, the husband of the most wonderful lass that ever lived and the father of seven children, three of whom survived past their first year, namely, Emily the youngest, then Caroline and our oldest, Michael.


I loved my country and family but the potato blight that destroyed our crops left me to choose to remain and starve to death or leave my beloved country for a new land where hope could once more spring. My wife and three children reluctantly moved to the nearest harbor town and worked for passage on the next vessel heading for America. It was near the shipyards that we first met the Mormon missionaries and the moment we heard their unusual doctrine, the Spirit witnessed to us that we had stumbled upon God’s true faith.


After a grueling trip across the Atlantic, sleeping on deck and suffering miserably, we arrived in America in the year 1857. We were forced to live a scanty existence but still managed to join a handcart company heading west in pursuit of Zion. We were exposed to every hazard along the way and subject to the dictates of searing heat or freezing cold on many an occasion. Our youngest child Emily was just four years old when she became ill and had already been the receiver of many privations.


She had beautiful dancing eyes and an impish grin that would melt the heart, but alas the exposure became too much for her and we buried her in a rocky, shallow grave, covered with stones.


The four of us, including a son and daughter now plodded solemnly forward, nary saying a word for days as we mourned her loss and yet the fate of our seven year old Caroline was soon to be realized. We had camped for the night under the stars and when we awoke the next day; our sweet daughter Caroline was nowhere to be found. She was a naturally curious girl and we feared that she had wandered off and become lost. We searched the camp and called her name till our throats ached but looked in vain. The rest of the handcart company moved on, agreeing on a meeting point later, while the three of us prayed with increasing fervor that she might be found. Night was beginning to approach and we feared greatly that she might be sleeping alone on that prairie, subject to many dangers.


After several hours of looking, I realized that a stretch of ground seemed oddly familiar, although, at first, I knew not why. It was then, when I was about to head into a different direction, that I spotted, in the distance, a lonely shade tree by the brow of a hill. Suddenly, I could not speak. I ran toward the tree with energy I did not know I had left. My wife and son saw my enthusiastic dash and followed after. There, at the base of that tree sat our daughter and as we embraced, cried and were filled with joy; my wife and son joined us in our happiness. It was an answer to our prayers and recognition as to why the dream had haunted me for such a long time.


After many days the four of us arrived at the Salt Lake Valley and spent the remainder of our time carving out a place for our family and living the Gospel with gratitude and zeal.