by Rev. Caitie Jackson
I have grown into the keeper of my family’s past—my father’s stories, his father’s before him, and the stories of my great-grandparents, who in 1923 left the Emerald Isle to begin anew in America. They are tales of strength forged in hardship, of calloused hands working to provide, of defending what is theirs and of building a life for those yet to come.
Among my earliest memories of heritage are my father’s words: “Your Irish genes are the strongest—they take over all your other genes. You’re 100% Irish, my little leprechaun!” I carry that hand-me-down pride with me now, like a worn-in sweatshirt or a quietly gleaming badge—a piece of my family’s story stitched into who I am.
As I joined the Center for Congregational Health on their recent retreat to Ireland, we settled into our first stay at Kilkeel, a town in Northern Ireland. On the second day we gathered as a group with Gareth Higgins to learn about the history of Ireland – the Troubles, the rebellions, the peace treaties and the stories of pain that still echo through its hills and villages.
We learned that when you ask someone about who they are or of their history in Ireland, they often begin with the Troubles and times of war. These moments didn’t just mark their history—they became their story. We saw firsthand how this weight was passed down through generations, as young children stepped into the retelling by reliving the same narratives their parents and grandparents had carried.
These lessons and stories served as a mirror for my own family. Even with my Irish pride as big as can be, I realized I had only been seeing a glimpse of the deeper, often untold currents that shaped our past.
I began to examine the family stories I had held so closely and noticed the patterns in their language—the warrior words of violence, struggle, survival and defense, intertwined with the language of hard work and earning what you have. These were the same generational stories we had encountered on the retreat, stories that seemed to rise from the very soil of the land my family came from.
Before traveling to Ireland, my family’s stories were just that—bedtime stories of family. After our travels, these stories revealed themselves as part of a much longer lineage, stretching far beyond my immediate family. With that understanding came a new responsibility: how would I continue telling these stories?
Have my ancestors’ stories become my story also? Do I want to pass down the language of struggle and survival to my children? Do I want them to carry the weight of generational pain and hardship?
Stories from the past do more than inform us—they shape how we envision the future. There is work to be done in reexamining and reframing these stories, ensuring that as they are passed down, they empower the next generations and allow us to move forward with understanding and purpose.
When I tell my family’s stories, I’ll reframe them by starting with the story of today—with my own story. I’ll weave in the tales of the generations before us, reaching all the way back to the Emerald Isle. I’ll share the courage and grit of those who came before, the dreams they planted, and the hope they sowed for my future children—my very own little Irish leprechauns. I’ll honor the past while answering the responsibility to take the next step forward.
And while this is the story of my family, I can’t help but reflect on the stories of the faith communities the Center for Congregational Health partners with. I wonder what story they would tell first when asked about who they are or where they come from. And in response, I ask: how might we, as faith leaders, take on the work of reframing the stories we tell—both within our families and within our congregations?
As faith communities navigate transitions, conflict, and impactful decisions, they are also shaping their own narratives. With that comes a responsibility: how will they continue telling their stories in a way that honors the past while guiding toward the future?