Doyle West
Jeff Westover

Finding Doyle West

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He was, to borrow a phrase, a master of the moment.

As the house lights came down the spotlight would zero in on him as he briskly made his way to the podium where he quickly bowed to the audience, receiving polite applause.

He turned on his heel and struck a quick chord with the orchestra and then, suddenly, he turned on his heel again facing the audience, his baton raised.

He held the note there for just long enough – the audience watching in curiosity. You could almost hear them thinking, “What in the world is he doing?”

And then, raising he eyes above and beyond the audience, a slight smile on his face, he brought down his baton and hundreds of voices responded:

“Behold, behold, behold…I am the Law and the Light!”

Stunned, the audience would turn in their seats and look up, and there above them, dressed in white, were 500 young people, their eyes glued to the conductor.

Before the audience could turn back around the spotlight was taken from the conductor and he became invisible. The curtain had parted and in a softer light stood the Savior.

Conducting was Doyle West, a gigantic figure to me as one of those voices in the balcony.

To me he was a man thoroughly convicted of what he was doing in this production of “And It Came to Pass”, known to us as the Oakland Temple Pageant.

Doyle passed away in 2015 and only recently did I learn, via his wife Ardyth, that he was laid to rest right here in Smithfield, just blocks from my home.

Doyle and Ardyth West are well known to my family not only because of Pageant and years of association there but also because Ardyth is a Westover.

Now 84, Ardyth has really only known me via social media, where she keeps a savvy and watchful eye on all the family. She has responded and reached out to me with many kind thoughts.

In response to a recent post Ardyth sent me a message with her phone number, asking me to give her a call. So I did – and I was rewarded with what I like to call a hall of fame conversation — one of those conversations of a lifetime. In nearly two hours together on the phone, I found myself taking copious notes as this dear lady fed me resources, shared memories and laughed with me in sharing details of family members we both know.

She might not think as much of that conversation as I do but I tell you I left energized, enthused and anxious to follow up on all she told me.

She is, for all things family history even, a wonderful resource.

As we spoke of her dear husband she shared with me the details of where he is buried and indicated that she’ll likely never get back this way again while she is still living. She asked if I wouldn’t go visit his grave and see his headstone, which tonight we did.

As we searched tonight for Doyle’s grave I couldn’t help but go back 40 years in my memory to those summer rehearsals and performances of Pageant.

I was lucky.

Around the age of 12 I was given a spiritual witness of the Prophet Joseph. But even though that was true I was a reluctant participant in Pageant. I am not the singer that my Westover cousins are and I’m certainly not a performer. I was also a bit resentful of how much precious summer time was devoted to Pageant.

But I can tell you that sitting in that balcony every night for two weeks – front row, most of the time – I came to love not only the music of Pageant but especially the message of Pageant.

It did much for my testimony and though shy and awkward I found my participation in Pageant during those teen years something of a secret obsession and a deep love.

Doyle West was one very big reason for those feelings.

I can remember once, before a Saturday afternoon performance, we had a quick rehearsal and Doyle said he wanted to work on “We are the Vision”. We began and he stopped us for a moment, to give some instruction, and then we began again.

We got halfway through the song and he stopped us once more.

“Do you realize what you’re saying in this song?,” he asked us. “Never was a time more exciting, never was a time such as this! We are the vision which the prophets saw! This is your song!”

And he started it again, ending that stirring anthem with tears streaming down his face. “Make no mistake my young friends, yours is the most important testimony given in this production. We didn’t actually need to practice that song. That was just for me.”

I love a good cemetery and the cemeteries here in Cache Valley are the best.

Doyle WestSmithfield has a beautiful cemetery. I actually spotted Doyle’s grave rather quickly but I couldn’t help hearing the songs of pageant – Who Am I?, Master of the Moment, Westward – over and over in my head, once again.

Why didn’t I know back then who Doyle and Ardyth are?

I was probably told but in the fog of youth – that dense, thick, dumb period where so very little sinks in – I never made the connection or saw the importance.

How very coincidental, it occurred to me, that here I am forty years later remembering those days but making yet another family connection now.

Why now? Why in this way? And how many times has this happened to me just this year?

My dear family, I want you to know a thought that rested upon me tonight as I looked upon Doyle’s grave.

We are being gathered – as a family – by forces unseen.

This could have happened forty years ago. Or a hundred years ago. But it IS happening now.

Never was a time more exciting, never was a time such as this.

I want Ardyth to know how much I love her and how much I hope we have many more conversations like we did last night. She has given me folks to contact and somehow I sense I will be held accountable for contacting them.

The connection, officially, is via Edwin and his 2nd wife, Sarah Jane Burwell.

As previously noted, I’ve had contact this year with five individuals who hail from that line. I know we have a story to tell there and with their help we will tell it.

I continue to be amazed at the contact I am receiving from Westovers from all over.

Folks of different beliefs, folks from different places, some from as far away as Australia and England. What we hold in common is a shared heritage in our Westover name.

I want to learn who they all are and I want to share all that they have to contribute to the family record. It is much deeper and much more important to so many people than I ever imagined.

I pray the contact keeps up. I hope folks keep reaching out, asking questions, sharing information and resources. Miracles are happening – so many that I cannot possibly detail them all.

I know, as ever, there is great indifference from many. But some are starting to catch the vision and are starting to feel the pull of our ancestors. They ARE reaching out to us, and I know I am not the only one who feels that.

I pray we are worthy of all they are doing and that we in return are doing all we can.

Ella Jensen
Jeff Westover

Our Family in the Spirit World

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Ella Jensen

Ella Jensen on her wedding day in 1895, about four years after her near death experience.

It has been something of a difficult year. This week we noted the passing of two more family members, the latest felt very keenly with my wife and her dear family. It is a tender time.

It is amazing to me how losing a loved one re-centers me.

I have found that even attending a funeral for someone who is not a family member touches me on a very fundamental level and reminds me how the things of this world pale in comparison to the eternal principles of love.

A good death, it seems, leads to a greater appreciation for living and loving better the people around me.

It is natural, in the process of mourning the loss of one so loved, to worry about where they are and if they are happy.

Those with gospel-centered teachings and a testimony of the Savior take comfort in God’s known plan. Others, whose lives have not given them access or opportunity to learn those things, may suffer more when a loved one leaves this life.

That is why I have always had a fascination with stories of “the other side”.

Long, long before my testimony strengthened in the Gospel of Jesus Christ I read and collected stories of near death experiences.

Today I again stumbled upon a story I had read before of a woman named Ella Jensen.

There are many accounts of her experience but I prefer this one, first published in 1929 while she was still alive. A shorter version can be found here.

This is an old story. Ella was nearly 20 years old when she died and was called back to life after being dead for nearly 3 hours. As with many near death experiences she tells a remarkable experience in seeing and conversing with loved ones who had preceded her in death. The detail in her story is amazing.

As I read her tale again, and contemplated it in the context of loved ones we have recently lost, it occurred to me how close Ella Jensen lived more than 100 years ago to where I am living now.

I know we have her maiden name Jensen in our Family Tree and the family historian in me couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. So off to Family Search I went.

I looked her up and – boom – there it was: a link to “view my relationship” with Ella Jensen. “I’ll be darned,” I thought. “We ARE family.”

I quickly scanned her tree looking for familiar names, thinking in my head this was another of my Westover connections from Northern Utah and South Eastern Idaho. But none of the names looked familiar.

So I hit the relationship link and was shocked to see I’m not related to Ella Jensen through my Westover line – it’s through my mother’s family that the distant relation dating back to the Puritans of Duxbury, Massachusetts is made. My 9th great grandmother, Mary Howland, is Ella Jensen’s 6th great grandmother. We’re cousins.

That changes the story doesn’t it? Her family is my family, just as much, I feel, as my wife’s family is my family. That being said, in context with Ella and her experience when she died, what might be the experience of this dear aunt lost this week on the other side?

For me the answers are clear. She is with family. She is with people who love her. And she is happy.

Does that lessen the sense of loss?

Good heavens, no.

It has been more than three years since I lost my Mom. I miss her more and more every day. I cannot count the times I have wept over missing her.

But at the same time, as hard as it is for me to explain, I’ve become closer to my Mother since she died.

I very firmly believe it comes from working on her family especially in these efforts of family history. This, I believe, is something I very much still hold in common with Mom.

I would give anything to have another conversation with her. I would give anything to tell her once again how much I love her.

But as Ella explained to those in her life that grieved, I feel Mother would be unhappy to know of my continued mourning.

Those moments, and they surely come, I find are more about me than about her. And by that I mean I want her back, I want her here during moments that are important to me. That makes the sting of death truly sting.

What gives me relief is that my Mother is with those she once lost – and that I too, have truly not lost anyone and never really will.

Yes, there is separation, a part of God’s plan to help us learn and grow in knowledge and in love. But those moments of separation are indeed merely moments on an eternal time line.

I will continue to be fascinated with the next life and, in a small way, live in envy of those who have already made that transition.

I know I too will someday go through it, as we all must. But it is not something I dread. In fact, I think of it with great rejoicing and give thanks to our Savior who makes such things possible.

Ella Jensen lived to tell the story. My mother, in her dying days, had moments while here with others on the other side, too. I witnessed it.

I believe it is part of the dying process and I’m convinced those we’ve lost this year all experienced the same. It is part of living, of this earth’s experience for each of us.

And in the end I think we will be surprised at all we can count as family. Whether they comes as in-laws or as distant relations like Ella, we are all family.

None Knew Them
Jeff Westover

None Knew Them But to Praise

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The generation of my grandparents is rightfully known as The Greatest Generation.

They have been so identified because of their sacrifices and contributions during the years of the Great Depression and World War II.

We likewise are free with our praise of the Pioneer Generation, those pre-and-post Civil War era ancestors who conquered the West

We marvel as well over the Generation of Emigrants who crossed oceans and continents around the turn of the 20th century.

In greater measure, we identify our Pilgrim and Puritan ancestors of the Great Migration generations of the 1600s.

But as I continue to work family history it occurs to me that there was a generation just as great as all these yet they seem to escape any recognition. I have come to call them the Unheralded Generation.

This is the generation of ancestors born from roughly 1790 to 1810, or so – the children and grandchildren of early colonists of the American Revolution.

We just don’t give them the credit they deserve.

This thought came to me as I pondered over the graves of ancestors this week in Mendon, Utah.

There, between the tiny markers for William and Linzey Findley, is a monument erected in their honor by the Daughters of Utah Pioneers.

The monument clearly says “None knew them but to love them. None named them but to praise.”

Curious, I began to poke around looking for where those words came from. I wanted to know why these words are assigned to a marker to these 5th great-grandparents of mine.

The all-knowing Google could only point me in the direction of an obscure 19th century America poet by the name of Fitz-Greene Halleck.

Halleck was something of a mover and shaker in early American publishing circles in New York. He rubbed shoulders with the likes of Washington Irving and Edgar Allen Poe.

A New York Times article described his poetic works as “ranging from the incomprehensible to the awful”. Yet there Halleck is, immortalized on the great Literary Walk of Central Park with William Shakespeare, Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

His one claim to poetic greatness comes from a work he penned for another poet, Joseph Rodman Drake, when Drake died. This poem made Halleck’s name widely known in the 19th century:

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, who truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine.

It should be mine to braid it,
Around thy faded brow,
But I’ve in vain essayed it,
And feel I can not now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.

I have pondered all week why the Daughters of Utah Pioneers would put those words on that monument above the graves of the Findleys.

I have shared the history of the Findleys before in telling the story of Ann Westover, her brother William, Jr. and his wife, Sarah.

But I’ve not said much about their parents, William Sr. and Linzey, because there is honestly little known there to share.

I have a feeling it is the story of a great love between two people. It is clearly a story of tremendous sacrifice. And it is certainly a story that has never been told nor rightfully recognized.

William Sr. was a Scot, a coal miner and quite nearly an old man when he pushed the family handcart with Linzey and Ann to Utah in 1856.

He was 47 years old that year and he would spend the last 30 years of his life toiling on the farm in Mendon in obscurity.

The town of Mendon has a plaque honoring the founding families of the city near the town square and the Findley name is on it. But that is a reference to William Findley Jr, who came to Mendon in 1859 and claimed some of the best farm land there to be found.

It was William Findley Jr who was well known in the community. He was the one with the impressive team of 12 champion horses. It was William Jr who on the High Council. It was William Jr. the journals of visiting Church authorities would mention as a leader in the Mendon Ward.

William Sr. and Linzey settled next door to William Jr. and Sarah.

When William Jr. unexpectedly died in 1869 it was William Sr. who sent for daughter Ann.

We know William Sr. was faithful. He appears on the records of the Mendon Ward in various activities all the way until about a month or so before his passing in 1887.

When Ann received her patriarchal blessing it was mentioned that William Sr. had just previously given Ann a father’s blessing, and was standing in with the Patriarch as Ann received her patriarchal blessing.

There can be no doubt of how close Ann Westover was to her parents. She named her first son William.

When she came to Mendon it was to help William, Jr.’s widow – Sarah, and her children – but she lived in the home and on the farm of her parents next door.

Their place, in time, became “Sister Westover’s house”, where the school children would pass each day and stop for cookies and storytelling.

Throughout all this drama the steady influence and presence of William Sr. and Linzey is evident – but never mentioned.

We know that Linzey was a beloved Matriarch. Generations of granddaughters after her carry her name. We know the little iron that Sarah carried beneath her skirts across the plains has been passed down in the decades since only to daughters named Lindsay.

Yet no stories or known written history of William, Sr. and Linzey Findley exist.

“None named thee but to praise”, indeed.

These honored and beloved pioneers are not the only ones of their generation whose true stories are not really known.

Alexander Westover – Edwin’s father – is practically unknown as a man. His wife, Electa, we have a little more about but she too lived a life of incredible loneliness and sacrifice.

David Rowe and his wife, Hannah – grandparents to Ruth Althea Rowe Westover – were of this generation as well.

Their son William’s stories of service in the Mormon Battalion and great spiritual experiences are documented well. But the stories of conversion and sacrifice for David and Hannah are not known or remembered.

Levi Murdock, and his wife Elizabeth, are significant figures in the settlement of the north Ogden area of Utah. But they were considered among the oldest and wisest of Mormon pioneer families yet they left behind no family records, relying on their history to be recorded in the journals of others.

David Smith and his companion, Deborah Alden – parents to Albert Smith, are better remembered not for their own history but for their distant heritage among the pilgrim and puritan settlers of New England.

Grandma Sophie’s parents – Johan Frederick and Sophie Catrine – have no known history. Perhaps all the records from Denmark are yet to be found.

From the Humble side of the family we do know a little more of those of this generation. George and Mary Ann came over from England in about 1850. But while we know their travels a lot more could be known of their story.

We do have a few from this generation whose stories we know.

Notably we know the stories of Gardner Snow, Horace Roberts and of Elam Cheney. These are all notable characters in early LDS history. But without outside record keeping from Church events we might not know anything about them at all.

I think of this generation as unheralded because they were truly the first to push westward. They may have first settled in places like Indiana, Ohio and Illinois before pressing forward towards Utah but they aren’t celebrated for that.

They were, if truth be told, pioneers to many of those WE consider to be pioneers.

So I find the DUP marker between William and Linzey in Mendon to be quite appropriate in its sentiment.

But I hope to one day make that sentiment obsolete. Their story should be discovered, shared and celebrated. They were, by all evidence, greatly devoted to family and grandparents I would be proud to know.

Jeff Westover

A Fitting Memorial for Grandpa

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Memorial Day. A day argued by many that is lost to some in meaning. Many mark it as an extra day off — a day of barbeques, a first summer swim in a lake or a chance to get away.

It began as Decoration Day, an event to decorate the graves of the fallen from the North and the South during the Civil War. It is a day specifically set aside to recognize those who died in the service of country.

Indeed, my own marking of the day has wandered over the years.

These days I make my way up to Mendon, and place flowers on the grave of grandmother Ann Findley Westover, a grandparent I hadn’t even known about 10 years ago. She never served in the armed forces, however, and if we’re going to split hairs you could say she wasn’t even an American.

But for me her grave gives me a special place to remember all who came before me – because they all died in the service of me and my children.

They all fought different kinds of battles, to be sure, and most never wore a uniform. But serve us they did – every one of them. Grandma Ann seems to be representative of them all in so many ways.

To be honest, as the grandson of one taken by war I have always been a bit lost on remembering him well each Memorial Day.

After all, his only grave that I know about is in France.

I have never been there and will likely never get the chance to go there.

There is, simply, no fitting place of memorial where I can leave my tokens of gratitude for him.

It was just Monday of last week that we buried my grandson, Quin.

His was a life taken before it ever truly began. His little body was laid to rest in Salt Lake City, a tiny grave tenderly prepared for him by loving parents and gathered family determined to remember his place in the family.

Odd as it seems, I could not help pondering the similarities between my grandson and my grandfather while at the cemetery this week.

It is no small wonder to me that Quin resides now within the same realm as my Grandpa Carl. These two men of the family – Quin, my grandson and Carl, my grandfather – have their common connection in me and my children.

Perhaps their circumstance is giving them the chance to know each other – a powerful thought to me.

That will be an opportunity we all face as the curtain of life descends on each of us.

In the months before my mother died I had some very sacred conversations with her about the family she would see when she got to the other side.

I asked her what she would say to her mother when the time came and Mom said, “I want to tell her how very much I have missed her but somehow I think she already knows that.”

But Mother was never one to keep conversations like this one sided.

“What would you tell her? Or, better yet, what do you want me to tell her?”

When it came to Nana my answer was simple. “You tell her, Mom, that I love her.”

Of her step-father, Bumpa, Mom was concerned with some earthly things – what he would say about what she did with the stuff he left her.

I told Mom that he wouldn’t care about that stuff but I can recall her smiling as she said, “Yes, but he’s going to ask me nonetheless.”

Her answer to my query about Grandma Begich was one of great interest to me.

Mother and I had not discussed her for many years. It was a topic I had dropped because Mom was, in my perception, a little bitter about Grandma’s refusal to see me when I had visited Minnesota in the 1980s. She took it very personally.

But Mom surprised me.

She sighed and said, “I just want to give her a hug and tell her I am sorry.”

That answer caused me to marvel and quite nearly made it impossible for me to say anything when Mom asked what she could tell Grandma Begich for me. “You tell her the hug is from us both, Mom”, was all I could think of to say.

But when it came to Grandpa Carl the question proved one very difficult for both of us to answer.

You see, my mother did not know her father. The war took him away before she could even create a memory of him. Mother would not have just one question for her father, I assure you.

I consider now what Mom said then to be something very sacred.

So I won’t reveal it here or at this time.

But Mom did ask me what she could say to him from me when the time came.

And that I will share with you.

“Mom, I’d like you to tell Grandpa that we have not forgotten him. I want him to know that even though we didn’t know him or his family in this life that we are trying to. I want him to know I appreciate how much he spoke of love for you and for Nana. I want him to know I’ve read of his love for his mother and for his father, and for his family. I want him to know that while I honor him for his sacrifice, I love him for who he was to them.”

Mother chuckled a little bit when I said that. “I don’t think I can remember all that”, she said. Yes, you will, Mom. In fact, I’m sure you did.

My brother has recently taken up the quest of trying to find out why Grandpa Carl died five days after the war ended in Europe.

The circumstances of his death have always been suspicious and while I think the sting of needing to know has subsided a bit I think the deeper curiosity now is fueled by a desire to know yet another story about him.

That will be interesting to learn, if we ever get to the truth. But there is, simply, more to his life than the tale of his death.

For me, however, the most fitting memorial for Grandpa Carl is finally starting to materialize.

It isn’t in a grave marker.

It is, as it ever has been, in his family.

Recently we have made new connections and we have learned more of Grandpa Carl.

But more importantly – much more importantly – we have felt love from those who claim him as family.

We have heard stories, we have seen tears shed, we have pondered together the what-if’s. And we have celebrated these lost individuals who have left this world to us from the Begich side of the family.

This, I think, would make Grandpa Carl very happy.

When he got to the other side I don’t think there was anyone in his life that he knew there to greet him. His father was another 20 years in passing over. His mother wouldn’t come for nearly 50 years.

But one by one his family members that he knew in this life have joined him.

What did he do to prepare for them? Who did he meet before they ever got there? How has he been able to connect to our family long passed to the family still occupying the earth?

I don’t know the answer to those questions except in this respect: it’s happening.

I am meeting and getting to know my Begich cousins. We are learning what they know of those my Grandpa Carl held most dear.

Baby step by baby step, we are becoming family – in the truest sense of the word.

What more fitting memorial can there be for Grandpa Carl?

To that end we will keep trying and keep connecting.

Who knows? Maybe someday – perhaps on a Memorial Day weekend – we can gather to remember, to honor and to celebrate.

And then everyone can bring flowers.

Norm Welty
Jeff Westover

The Beauty of the Little Details

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Recently I have had the chance to connect with more of my Begich cousins. It has been wonderful.

In conversing with one via email this week I asked some questions about my great Grandpa Mike Begich, who immigrated to the United States around 1905. He lived from 1886 to 1965.

In my lifetime I’ve heard so very little personal detail about him. So little details like this from my cousin this week are very meaningful to me:

“As an 8-year-old, I used to visit and stay over with my grandparents fairly often. Grandpa would always let me rummage through his junk drawer to admire old pocket watches and jack knives and other paraphernalia. Grandpa collected wood slats from peach and other fruit crates (Grandma was ALWAYS canning something or other) and showed me how to make bird houses out of them with his tools.”

So many think family history is tied to the epic events in their lives – the stories of overcoming, of moving from one country to another, of accomplishing great things. Those things have their place but I find greater comfort in the finer and even mundane details of their lives.

Norm WeltyFor example, pictured to the right is my Uncle Norm Welty, my grandmother’s little brother. Taken in 1978, he is about 60 years old and working on an engine in his garage. Cars were a passion with him and his family. This is Uncle Norm in his element. And it is a treasure to me. This picture speaks to me of Norm’s goodness.

There are many such lessons to find in the everyday details.

Another example: Grandmother Ann Finley Westover, a handcart pioneer, was known through-out the community of Mendon for her cookies. Her house was very close the school, which was in the center of town, and most children coming home from school knew they could stop in at Sister Westover’s house for stories and cookies on a daily basis.

Some of the details speak of normal stuff – like fighting with siblings.

In this delightful video Grandma Maurine Westover talks about having to fight like a boy with her brother:

Albert Smith left some wonderful detail about his pioneer life in his journals.

He had more mouths to feed than ever in 1855 and yet had suffered a total loss of his crops due to “the hoppers”, as he called them.

They were destitute and needed food. I can almost hear Albert in conversation as he told the story of what they had to do:

We heard that there was good crops raised up north in Ogden were two of my brothers-in-law lived Isaac Outicark and Orilin Colving. I saw no alternative for we only go there and get some grain, yet I had nothing to buy with so I had to go and get it by faith. I hocked my 2 yoke of oxen to my wagon, took plenty of sacks and Emily with her two babies and Almon her old child a lad of six years old and started for Egip, I mean Ogden, far west. We had good luck going there and we found our friends all well. Nearby one of my brother-in-law there was a large field where there was good chance for to glean. I improved every minute of my time that I could for 16 days gathered it together and thrashed it, cleaned and put it in to sacks and when it was done I had (22) twenty-two bushels of wheat. Emily had gotten 8 or 10 bushels with made me as big a load as I could hall with two yoke of oxen. We returned in safety the distance 150 miles. We found our family all well. So much for work and faith. That 32 bushels of wheat with the potatoes and few bushels or corn served us for bread the year (12 instead of 11 in my family) without and suffering although I had to give the Indians not such less than one bushel of potatoes for 40 or 50 days.

Amongst my Grandpa Carl’s letters I found this thought he had written home on New Year’s Eve in a letter to my Nana, speaking of the day my mother was born:

“…Being New Year’s Eve and all that sort of rot means its just another day for me, another evening spent in further solemnity, solitude and deep thought, thoughts pertinent to exactly one year ago today. And yet, I don’t looking up this day as being anything really, of true value. It only means that 1944 is here. But, I look further, exactly 11 days – eleven days from this evening. Gees — Mt. Kisco Hospital; maternity ward; a big whooping squeal and bingo, there she was: Cathy. Remember? Then too, the next day when I visited you – and saw you in the recuperating department. Yes, dearest, I cherish those things. How find and beautiful you looked the next day, your eyes were plain fire balls, shining like the sun…”

At the end of the day do these small details matter? Do we really need to know that our English grandfather named John Westover III had three cows names Lily, Sparkle and Pickle?

Maybe not, but I think they make a difference.

The beauty of the little details makes these grandparents and ancestors so much more than names on a headstone.

They were just normal folks, doing the same things we all do.

They took their joys as blessings and their challenges as opportunities to grow faith. They did, as we all do — the very best they could.

I find more and more as I seek out family and get to know more about those I have not known I come to appreciate most these little details.

What is normal is sacred to me about them. I think that is because I want to be worthy of them. And it is the small normal things that makes that possible.