We Sweeneys

I am in process of archiving letters to and from my father when he was in college. You will hear a lot more about that as time goes by. For now, here is an interesting piece sent to him by a friend. I like it.

We Sweeneys

by Bruce Barton

The first public man I ever interviewed was John A. Johnson, son of a poor widow, who made his way up from dire poverty to become Minnesota's youngest governor.

He spoke of a man, whose name I have long since forgotten. "That man loaned me books, when I was clerking in a country drug-store," said the Governor. "He encouraged me to read; he paid my subscription at the library. To him, more than to any other, I owe whatever I am"

Recently I ran across this sentence in a new life of Lincoln. 

"Abraham Lincoln attended school in Indiana. His first teacher was Andrew Crawford, his second a man named Sweeney; his third was Axel W. Dorsey."

A man named Sweeney. Was he a good teacher? Did he ever sit with young Abraham in front of the fire and talk? Did he suspect at all the power that was hidden in that gaunt frame?

Who was Sweeney, anyway? Just one of the forgotten millions.

What a countless army they are, the unknowns of history, the Sweeneys!

Who was the owner of the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus of Nazareth loved to retire for peace and rest? Some rich man of friendly interest and open heart, some Sweeney.

Who was the mother of Socrates?  What underpaid teacher taught Shakespeare to read? What overworked country doctor tended Joan of Arc?

Sweeneys ------------------------ all Sweeneys. 

So interwoven are the threads of human life that no single contact is trivial.  In our most casual moments we entertain angels; around the humblest of us are the influences that touch eternity. 

The world will never know our names, but it cannot do without us. We carry on, we Sweeneys.