Well if not-- That's my major! So I for my Family History class this semester I have to have 30 research hours.. and the research log is due Thursday... and I have 15 hours... sooooo I'm literally living in the library this week trying to get my research hours completed.
During this this time I discovered that my family has a book written about my family history! And the BYU Library had the book.. WHAT ARE THE CHANCES! haha so I've been reading it for the last hour or so and I just wanted to share this little blip written about my ancestor Archibald Waller Overton Buchanan by his grandson and published in the June 1974 Ensign:
Teenage Witness to the
Martyrdom
Grandpa Archie sat in Mother’s rocker, waiting for his lunch.
Suddenly he called me to him, took me on his lap, and said, “Golden, I am old. I
won’t be around much longer, but I have something to say to you that must not be
lost. I want my grandchildren and their children to know that I was in Nauvoo
when they murdered our Prophet.”
His old body trembled, and he squeezed me until I was almost
frightened as I felt the deep anger in his soul. His feeble eyes blazed, and his
soft, faltering voice became as hard as ice, and as cold:
“How I hated those who dared lay their hands upon the prophet I
loved.”
He sighed, and his old body relaxed a little. “I was there when
they brought their bodies back from Carthage. I saw their bloody, lifeless
forms; I heard the anguished cries of their wives and neighbors; I saw their
sobbing children and tried to comfort them.
“I knew the Prophet’s boys, played with them. They were often in
our home, and I in theirs. Now they were fatherless, even as I. Their father was
a martyr by bullets; my father was dead because of drivings, persecutions, and
hate—but no less a martyr for the truth.
“I was there when they buried the sandbags to deceive the mob and
laid the bodies in secret graves.”
Grandfather paused. He needed strength. And then he went on:
“Listen again, my son. I tell you this because I want you to know. After the
Prophet’s body fell from the window at Carthage, the mob rushed upon him to
desecrate his body. But God would not permit this act of violence. He sent a
sheet of lightning between the Prophet and those sons of the infernal pit, and
they dared not touch him. Golden, my son, remember this—they could not touch
him. They ran and are running still and will run till judgment
day.”
He was tired now and his voice trailed off, “I hope I am present at
that day.”
He dozed. Slowly the color crept back into his face, and when he
opened his eyes, they shone with a light I had not seen before. Holding me at
arm’s length, he commanded with a voice that no longer shook:
“My boy, look at me and listen. I want you to hear it from one who
was there. I want you to hear it from one who loved him. I want you to hear it
from one who knows.
“Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Through him God restored his
church, and it will never be destroyed or taken from the earth. Now, my boy,
remember what I say. I, your grandfather, was 14 then, and I was there.”
Teenage Witness to the
Martyrdom
Grandpa Archie sat in Mother’s rocker, waiting for his lunch.
Suddenly he called me to him, took me on his lap, and said, “Golden, I am old. I
won’t be around much longer, but I have something to say to you that must not be
lost. I want my grandchildren and their children to know that I was in Nauvoo
when they murdered our Prophet.”
His old body trembled, and he squeezed me until I was almost
frightened as I felt the deep anger in his soul. His feeble eyes blazed, and his
soft, faltering voice became as hard as ice, and as cold:
“How I hated those who dared lay their hands upon the prophet I
loved.”
He sighed, and his old body relaxed a little. “I was there when
they brought their bodies back from Carthage. I saw their bloody, lifeless
forms; I heard the anguished cries of their wives and neighbors; I saw their
sobbing children and tried to comfort them.
“I knew the Prophet’s boys, played with them. They were often in
our home, and I in theirs. Now they were fatherless, even as I. Their father was
a martyr by bullets; my father was dead because of drivings, persecutions, and
hate—but no less a martyr for the truth.
“I was there when they buried the sandbags to deceive the mob and
laid the bodies in secret graves.”
Grandfather paused. He needed strength. And then he went on:
“Listen again, my son. I tell you this because I want you to know. After the
Prophet’s body fell from the window at Carthage, the mob rushed upon him to
desecrate his body. But God would not permit this act of violence. He sent a
sheet of lightning between the Prophet and those sons of the infernal pit, and
they dared not touch him. Golden, my son, remember this—they could not touch
him. They ran and are running still and will run till judgment
day.”
He was tired now and his voice trailed off, “I hope I am present at
that day.”
He dozed. Slowly the color crept back into his face, and when he
opened his eyes, they shone with a light I had not seen before. Holding me at
arm’s length, he commanded with a voice that no longer shook:
“My boy, look at me and listen. I want you to hear it from one who
was there. I want you to hear it from one who loved him. I want you to hear it
from one who knows.
“Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Through him God restored his
church, and it will never be destroyed or taken from the earth. Now, my boy,
remember what I say. I, your grandfather, was 14 then, and I was there.”
Genealogy... are you doing it?
