I grew up in a storytelling family.  My mother was born into a large farm/ranch family of people that enjoyed life to the fullest.  The family was 15 children strong.  My grandmother died before I was born, but I love her from the stories I have been told.  My grandfather and his family were of the Quaker Christian faith that immigrated here from Ohio to participate in the opening of Oklahoma Territory in the land run of 1889.  He, my great grandfather, and other family and community members built a country church several miles from Tribbey, Oklahoma, where he preached the word to anyone of any faith.  At some point, they added a cemetery where my great grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, etc are buried.  The church still stands over 100 years later and it and the church are maintained by family far out in the rural  countryside, near no town.
     I grew up attending huge family reunions once a year and, several times a year, cousin meetings they called them.  The usual scenario was my grandfathers sister, Aunt Francis, a newspaper reporter, would get up and start dancing in her long dress and granny shoes.  She could jump and click her heels together at 60+.  She always had a smile and a great story to tell.  We always began and ended with a prayer.  Some people think Christians are a serious, almost depressed lot.  It just isn't so.  I miss them all.
     My mother was a storyteller in her own right.  She was the youngest of the 15 kids and a twin.  When the sisters and she got together...let the storytelling and laughter begin.  One of my favorite stories is told like this, it was a dark, cold winters evening.  My  grandfather hitched the horses to the wagon, and loaded all the family up to go to church services.  He drove with my Uncle Charley sitting beside him.  The rest of the kids along with my grandmother were in back. They were plodding along the dark country road bundled in blankets when one of the kids yelled," an arm!"  Grandpa stopped the wagon and, sure enough, in the ditch beside the road lay someone's arm.  Grandpa and uncle Charley climbed down from the wagon,  carefully examined the arm, and tenderly wrapped the arm in a blanket.  The cold weather, evidently, had preserved the arm.  When they arrived home after church, they brought the arm into the house and unwrapped it gently as everyone gathered round.  There was a sudden gasp as one of the kids said," it's Olie's arm!"  Olie was one of the oldest children.  She had left several weeks before that and had not returned as happened occasionally with large farm families in the early  1900's in pioneer times.  After carefully examining the arm, Grandma said, "It really is Olie's arm."  There was a loud outcry of agonizing grief.  The next day, a hole was dug and the arm buried with a solemn ceremony and prayers.  Thoughts of Olies painful demise at the hands of who knows who or what ran through everyone's heads.
     A week maybe two passed.  Everyone was eating supper one evening when who should walk in the door...Olie...with a new husband.  My Grandma shreiked with half joy, half overwhelming relief at the site of her.  Everyone else followed the same pattern after the shock wore off.  Olie thought, "Wow, this is a great reception.  I thought everyone would be mad at me."
     When I was old enough to do a little critical thinking, I asked my Mother, "Whose arm was it?"  Her answer was, " We never found out."   That's it?  If that were today, there would be an Amber Alert and the FBI, CIA, Army, and everyone else would have been called in.   Life was definitely different back then.  A lot simpler.  Maybe a lot better. Similar to our Lord's message...simple, yet powerful.
     I miss them all, but they live again when I retell their stories.  I promised my Mother that I would give the world her family's stories as she breathed one of her last breaths in her earthly body.  She smiled and passed away peacefully to rejoin her family.