Carol's Corner

In October 1902 Henry C. Quiring wrote in his journal, “Today I carried half my family to the grave.”

This simple, poignant statement leaves the reader with many unanswered questions. In a flood of curiosity, I long to know what happened? Why? How many is half his family? But it also causes me to wonder what happened next? How did he survive? Did he barely exist or eventually thrive again?

I had the privilege to grow up hearing more than this one heart wrenching statement. I know the prequel and the sequel to this journal entry for Henry C. Quiring is my great grandfather, whom I had the honour of knowing for the first twelve years of my life.

The family shared the story of the young couple, their almost two year old daughter and newborn baby who lived on their homestead in a sod house on the prairie. The happy occasion of the birth of this second child in August of 1902 soon turned to tragedy when mother and baby contracted tuberculosis and subsequently died in October, causing the penning of this one sentence to sum up a time of grief.

I heard about the tenacity, the faith and the community of believers that supported this young father and his child. I heard of Henry’s prayers for God to supply the right woman to be his new wife and mother for his daughter and how he waited patiently the entire winter, not only in the season of the year but of his life as well, for the answer.

Difficulty in life, tragedy and heartache were not uncommon to the pioneers. The story continues into the future. It includes a new pastor coming to lead the small church, bringing with him his wife and eleven children. Their homestead had a small wood framed house with hardly enough room for even a small family. The rocky hillsides made farming difficult. I heard about this wife and mother, who became Henry’s new mother-in-law.

Each day Henry’s new mother-in-law spent some quiet time. Her eleven children knew that mom was not to be disturbed as she knelt by a huge limestone rock buried into the ground in front of their tiny home. She shed so many tears during her daily alone time with God that her children dubbed it the Crying Stone. She never shared the reasons for the tears with anyone. The burdens she cried about remained a secret between her and her God.

As an adult I looked around that steep, rocky hillside surrounding the old homestead. I tried to imagine the land with no roads, no modern transportation or communication and guessed what may have crossed her mind. Maybe she shed tears of loneliness as she missed family left behind in the old country. Some tears may have been shed as she wondered this ground could provide for their needs. She may have been burdened with concerns for her neighbours and fellow church goers or her own children. Likely the tears represented a combination of all these concerns. Yet she remained strong in her faith, teaching her children that hardships could be lived through and overcome. They in turn taught their children, who passed it on to my generation. These family stories of survival in the midst of tough times are part of the fabric of my family and therefore help to make me who I am today.

We may not have had to write a journal entry like Henry did in 1902, but each of us, through all the generations have experienced tough times, tragedy and heartache. These hardships can destroy us or help us grow stronger. My faith, passed on from generations before me and now made my own, will help carry me through the storms in my life. The stories of long ago inspire me and challenge me to journal my responses to various life events as well as encourage me to seek my place of quiet refuge during each busy, activity filled day.

What family story inspires and challenges you?