1959.
If my mother’s memory is to be trusted, and it usually is, 1959 was when my beloved Uncle Carl—he of blessed memory—first went over to Sweden to meet our Swedish relatives. My mother is 100% Swedish, and apparently, my grandmother had kept in touch with some of her people. And so, my uncle, long before there was anything like Ancestry.com, went out to Salt Lake City, where the Mormons keep extensive genealogy records, and started digging into our family history.
I don’t know what peaked his interest initially. I know he loved to travel, and that throughout his life, he travelled all over the world. But I don’t know what about our family history was of such interest to him. What I do know, though, is that he wasn’t content with one visit, but he went back again and again, and at some point, he brought my mom along, and then, later, he brought me. Even toward the end of his life, when both his vision and hearing were failing, he loved to visit the family. He just liked to be together, even if he couldn’t hear what everyone was saying.
But the truth is that I became interested in our family long before I ever visited Sweden, or met anyone in person. When I was a young girl, Uncle Carl gave me the name and address of a cousin who was my age–her name is Marianne–and we became pen pals for many years. We are now good friends, and while we now get to spend time in person, we still write letters back and forth.
The first time I went to Sweden was when I was studying in Neuendettelsau, Germany, during my time at Wartburg Seminary. Uncle Carl and my mom came to visit; they picked me up in Germany and we drove up to Sweden. To be honest, I don’t remember much about that trip, except that it was the first of many trips, and the beginning of what has become a very special connection. And while I am grateful to my dear uncle for many things, I will always be especially grateful to him for introducing me to my Swedish family.
Of all the cousins I have met, I am closest to one set of siblings: the five children of Stig and Ulla Augustsson. Stig was the son of Edvin Augustsson, who had an older brother named Rickard Olson. Richard is my mother’s grandfather. These five siblings all live in, or close to, the beautiful village of Töllsjö, and this is ground zero for our Swedish visits. I have lost count of how many times I have been there; and, of course, they have come to visit us in the United States, too. We have a strong bond, forged over decades, defying the time and distance between us.
I was thinking about all of this recently, because I just got back from my most recent trip to Sweden, for John and my “Swedish daughter’s” wedding. I have known Ellinor since she was a little girl, and we have a very special relationship; her father, Dennis, is one of those five siblings, and we are very close to all three of his children. [One of his sons, Keith, now lives in Denver with his wife Karin. It feels so good to have family in Colorado again!] Ellinor and I have visited back and forth many times over the years: she came over when she was in high school and stayed with John and me for two weeks—one week in South Carolina, and one week in Gettysburg; we went for her high school graduation; she came for my 50th birthday; we hosted her and her now-husband Leo in Dubuque; and we met them for vacation this May in Edinburgh.
This was my first Swedish wedding, and it was so much fun; it was a great party, and many people offered toasts during dinner. I shared a toast, too, and in that toast, I talked about our closeness, and how we maintain it.
“The thing that Ellinor and I have learned from one another over the years is that love means showing up. You can imagine it is not easy to maintain a close relationship with a vast ocean between you, but it is possible, and you do that by making time for each other: travelling back-and-forth, video calling, writing letters, sending gifts—and even meeting on a neutral continent once and awhile! Even when it is inconvenient, even when it is hard, even when you have to make some sacrifices, you show up for the people you love.”
Home now, still glowing from the experience, I find myself feeling profoundly grateful for the gift of being there, the gift of presence—and the gift of love, the gift of family.
When it comes to my time, I don’t always make the right decisions. I sometimes work too much and too hard, and say no to people in favor of saying yes to paper—email, writing projects, reviewing documents, etc. But the truth is, I never, ever regret the time I give to deepening friendships and spending time with family. I will never forget being with Ellinor and Leo on their special day, and being with our family as we talked and danced and laughed together. MasterCard commercials have ruined the concept of “priceless,” but still—that is the best word for the experience.
I was thinking about Uncle Carl, too; he would be so happy to know that we have continued the relationships he started. Decades and decades of love, started by one man who chose to show up.
