Dear Diane, Not much action on the list lately, I was thinking that a good "topic" to share would be true accounts of how the Lord has helped us with our genealogy. If you think this is a good idea, feel free to include my story which I will "cut and paste" below. Sherrie "AND THE WAY WILL BE PREPARED BEFORE YOU, AND DOORS WILL BE OPENED UNTO YOU" Twenty years ago I received counsel in my patriarchal blessing to seek after my ancestors. As a total amateur, I started attending the family history class taught during Sunday School. Because many generations of my mother's genealogy were already completed, I wanted to work on my father's side of the family, but my father and his father and mother were all deceased. By writing to the county courthouse, I was led to a dear Methodist minister. He helped me discover my great great grandfather, William McKendre Clark, who had been one of the founders of their local Methodist Church. But, search as I might, even travelling to William's birth place in Bourbon County, Kentucky, I never could find the names of his parents. After completing as much as I could of my four generations, and with the increasing demands of a growing family, I set my genealogical records on the shelf for many years. In 1991, the prompting to know my ancestors returned, and I took the new Sunday School family history class, vowing to try again. More trips were made to my local family history center (FHC), even several to Salt Lake City, but no new information on William's parents was discovered. I wrote letters to everyone from Methodist archivists to county clerks to fellow researchers, but no one had the information I was seeking. Then, in January of this year, I was called to work in the FHC -- I was thrilled! This would be an opportunity to not only use the new computer system to search again, but I would also learn so much as I worked with the other patrons. More research, more trips to the Salt Lake City FHC -- even studying every history of Methodism I could put my hands on; but, no clues, no mention of my Reverend William Clark. One evening, as I went to help a friend work on her family history, I got to talking with a fellow co-worker at the FHC about my frustration in never finding my great, great grandfather's parents. He leaned close to me, and asked "Sister Wieland, do you believe in a God who is omnipotent, knowing all things from the beginning to the end?" What could I say, but, "Yes, you know I do." Then, fixing his clear, blue eyes intently on mine, with a tremor in his voice, he bore powerful witness to me: "Sister Wieland, there are no dead ends in genealogy. The Lord knows every individual who ever lived on this earth and he knows where every detail of their life can be found. Through our faithful prayers and patience, he will reveal it to us." His words rung over and over in my mind, "There are no dead ends in genealogy." I was afire with new hope! A few weeks later, I got a call from my brother's wife, offering me an all-expense paid trip to do genealogy with her in the Midwest (her ancestors came from just across the Mississippi River in Grand Mound, Iowa). Her parting words, as she hung up, were, "This time we're going to find William's parents!" We flew into Chicago and rented a car to drive across the state to Knox County; it was 106 record-breaking degrees and 90% humidity! I spent all Thursday evening and all day Friday and Saturday searching the genealogical records in the county court house and county library. I looked at 1840 censuses, 1850 censuses, county histories, even cemetery records; and discovered three other children for William McKendre that I never knew existed. But, even though I had worked tirelessly with a constant prayer in my heart, I felt no closer to unraveling the identity of his parents. Sunday, we went to church in Iowa, and I offered silent prayers of supplication to the Lord, selfishly reminding Him of the sacrifices my family had made to let me come, and pleading that He wouldn't let me return home without what I had come for. A quiet prompting came to me that I should drive back down and visit the cemetery in person. I had already been to the Abingdon Cemetery ten years previously, and I knew it would be so hot and muggy, my logical side argued for staying in the air conditioned motel room! However, I asked my brother if he would accompany me one last time, before we were to fly out of Chicago the next day. I called the retired minister who had assisted me twenty years previously, and miraculously he was still alive and even remembered me. I told him I wanted to see if I could possibly locate the unnamed headstones of two of William's children that I now knew had died as infants. He directed me to a small country cemetery, which I had never visited before, located near William's old farmstead. Nearly two hours later, we pulled onto the small country road leading to Gilson, Illinois. Not knowing exactly which way to go, we stopped and asked a farmer who was out in his yard. He gave us directions to the old McCalister Cemetery: "Oh, go on up this hill and you'll see the gate just about a half mile down the road on the left." He concluded with the classic, "You can't miss it." Four miles later, I said to my brother, "I think we missed it." Again, we saw an older farmer working in his garden and asked for new directions. "Well," he said, "You go back down this hill and up the next and down the next and you'll see a wooded lot on your right. Ya can't miss it!" "Swell," we thought, and retraced our steps. Three miles later, we decided we had missed it again! Another stop, only this poor man said he had no idea as he was just here visiting his aunt -- he suggested we go on down the road and talk with the farmer on the corner, "He'll know." "Yeah," we thought to ourselves, "he will, as he has already told us once!" With darkening storm clouds on the horizon, we decided to try one last time. My brother drove about a quarter mile farther and pulled sharply off the road into a hidden, overgrown cow trail. I thought he had just found a turnaround, but there in front of us was a big old wooden farm gate surrounded by weeds as tall as it was -- not at all the wrought-iron gate of our imagination! Nowhere in sight were the headstones or crosses we had expected to see, only a miniscule, nondescript sign reading "McCallister Cemetery." We set off through the abandoned cow pasture, following an old path that disappeared into a grove of trees atop a small hill in the distance. Reaching the knoll, we could see a tidy, small cemetery surrounded by a modern fence. My brother stepped forward to open the heavy steel gate, but it swung open before us! We walked through and I looked at my brother and he looked at me. We both looked back at the gate. It slowly shut back exactly where it had been before. It gives me goose bumps even now! My brother, always the skeptic, said, "Aww, it's just the wind." Even though there was not even a breeze when he said this, we watched and waited and watched and finally the gate stirred just a tiny little bit, so my brother said to me, "See," and we turned to begin our search of the old headstones. I noticed, however, that he continued to look back over his shoulder at that gate -- he later admitted he never did see it open again. Halfway through the cemetery, we found a large marker, the granite-etched words half-effaced, but still reading William E. Clark. William E. was one of William M's sons. There, beside this headstone, were three tiny, tablet-sized headstones with the scarcely discernible names of Milton, Martha, and Mary Clark written on them. But, miracles of miracles, and wonders of wonders, (I'm getting goosebumps again!) at the end of the three small stones was a larger marker inscribed with these three names and their death dates on two sides, BUT on the front side was carved in large letters: Ruth Clark, age 60 years. I knew William had named his first daughter Ruth, and the Spirit bore witness to me that this was William M's mother which is why her grandchildren's names could share her tombstone. And, if her name was not enough to cause me to shout, "Hallelujah!" there on the bottom of the tombstone was inscribed "a native of Maryland." Here in front of me was what I had been searching and praying for, for twenty years. I felt like kneeling down right there beside her grave and pouring out my heart in gratitude to the Lord. The great joy in my heart is still visible in the picture my brother took. The sun that had been shining brilliantly was now gone and dark clouds gathering; we knew it was time to go. As we approached the gate, my brother turned to me to say, "Well, it won't open again." But before he could even touch the gate, it opened out to us, just as it had before. We slipped through, almost reverently. As we looked back, we watched the gate swing closed, exactly as before. This time my brother could only shake his head and humbly comment, "I'm a witness; it really happened!" Glancing at the threatening skies, my brother observed, "Looks like tornado weather to me, and mark my words, that if we don't get out of here NOW we won't get out of here without a four-wheel drive." We scurried quickly along the path and back into the car. As we drove away, we turned on the radio to hear the weather report and listened in amazement as the announcer told of a fast-moving, severe thunderstorm that had just hit Maquon, a town barely three miles away. The storm had left behind six inches of standing water, and was now heading Northwest directly towards the cemetery. Could I deny that I had been guided and protected in my search? No! not any more than Joseph Smith could deny that he had seen God. I had seen the hand of the Lord helping me and I knew it and I knew God knew it! We will never know, but I will always feel that it was my great great grandmother Ruth who opened the gate for my brother and me. She had waited so patiently for us to come and find her and seal her to her three precious grandchildren. We are promised that the Lord will open doors for us to find our kindred dead. I bear solemn witness to you that doors were opened for me and they will be opened for you as you turn your heart to your ancestors. A true account written by Sherrie Wieland, September 1995, Roseburg, Oregon