I am sitting in the home of one of my first cousins, drinking coffee and eating strawberries. Laurie and Linda have been my friends for many years. Every summer I looked forward to August because we went to Felton, Buchanan, and Cedartown, Georgia to spend time with my dad’s family. For some reason, this visit always made me feel like I was coming home. Maybe it was because my dad was a pastor and we lived in several places… and several other places since I grew up. But coming to Georgia to be with aunts and uncles and cousins was always the same. It was, in a strong way, my anchor place. Knowing that eight generations of McClungs ended up here after immigrating from Scotland to Ireland through Pennsylvania, makes us what I call cozy clannish.
Today in this beautiful Georgia mountain home with a view overlooking Helen, Sautee, and four layers of the BlueRidge, I am at home again. This could be partly because we are working on finishing up a family history book Laurie started years ago. We had a wonderful cousins’ reunion on April 13, 2024 and I agreed to come visit and help Laurie with some of the writing. We have laughed and cried and actually gotten some work done.
I admit we have taken a lot of segues into memories and music and spiritual realms. Again, a sense of home. A sense of belonging. A sense of the great privilege of growing up in our families. We have lost 9 of 33 cousins, several of these in recent years. Those of us remaining still enjoy being together and we always have fantastic fun… even at funerals… which is where we often reconnect. Some people don’t celebrate the passing of family. But with us, the sadness is real but the appreciation is palpable. And the stories… so many great stories.
Which brings us to “the story”.
The McClung heritage is one of deep spiritual connections. Life was centered around Baptist and Presbyterian churches, maybe others. But the real depth that grew out of church life was service. Laurie and I talked about the precious treasure of the principles we grew up with. Our fathers were both dedicated to “doing the right thing”. They often went about the right thing in different ways. Even in conflict, the love survived.
Can you imagine what this family lived through in the 100 years from my dad’s birth in 1919 to 2019? My mom actually lived 99.5 of those years on this earth. I have a remarkable diary from her for the years 1937 -1940. (When I finish reading it, I will share the highlights.)
Politics, Pandemics, Power shifts. Famines, Wars, Cultural upheavals. Crashes, Recessions, Depressions.
And yet, they still remained steadfast as family. I have no doubt the key to this cohesion is more than clansmanship. It is their faith. My great-grandfather was among the founders and builders of the Baptist Church in Haralson County most of the family attended. When we visited from Virginia, I rode with other grandkids to church in the back of Granddaddy’s ’49 Chevy pick-up on benches he’d built. By the time I came along, we were attending the ‘new building’ my dad and granddad helped build in 1937-38. The latest building for this generational church family was completed in 1996, converting the older church into a Fellowship Hall. The family is rife with preachers, deacons, choir directors, Sunday school superintendents, teachers and elders. My dad had a hand in the building of all of them.
The old home place burned down many years ago, but a good number of my first cousins still live in and around the area. Out of all those cousins 17 made it to the last gathering. Plans were made for small groups to come together with Laurie to help finish “their” pages in the book.
My greatest lesson in theses recent visits is a blanket reminder. Home is not necessarily the place. Home is the presence of people we hold dear. An old adage rings true.
“Home is where the heart is.” Where the heart grows. Where love surrounds us.
Is this the reason old hymns sing of heaven being our home? I expect so. Nothing runs deeper in the soul.
Mother Factors 