Alamojo

 

For this cause I bow my knees unto the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is named. . . .

-- Ephesians 3:14,15

 

There was a Darst at the Alamo. One of the heroes who gave his life to win freedom for Texas was my great-great-great-grand-whatever.

 

We've always known it. But it wasn't until a relative stopped in at the old mission in San Antonio a while back that we realized how big a deal it really was.

 

She mentioned the connection to Jacob Darst.

 

Their eyes lit up. Bells rang. Sirens sounded. Staff members poured in.

 

"WE HAVE A DESCENDANT! WE HAVE A DESCENDANT!"

 

They shook her hand. They gave her a stack of specially-stamped brochures.

 

They wanted to give her a private tour of the 1836 massacre, and how it happened. They showed her the bronze plaque with his name on it, and the enormous oil portrait of Jacob hung in the gift shop, one of only six commemorative paintings. They said the Kentucky native was married to Davy Crockett's niece; that's how he wound up at the Alamo. They told her she could never get a job working there; that would be sacrilegious.

 

What a hero! That's the good news.

 

The BAD news is, Jacob was found shot in the back. That meant . . . gulp . . . HE WAS TRYING TO GET AWAY.

 

"Yeah, and he was probably in women's clothes," my husband added sarcastically. You know, trying to "pass."

 

Aw, he was just jealous. HIS family is related to U.S. Supreme Court Justice John Marshall. At his funeral, the Liberty Bell cracked. That's a biggie to see in Philadelphia. My beloved had strutted around, bigtime, about that. But I had just pointed out that our San Antonio Riverwalk hotel had given us a takeout menu in the room with this item: "Tijuana Phillysteak."

 

He got mad. Is nothing sacred?

 

Anyway, when we went to San Antonio after Christmas to see the Huskers play in the Alamo Bowl, I was excited to visit the Alamo and get the ego-boosting red-carpet treatment, too.

 

Our relative had been there on a weekday, at closing time, the only visitor at the time. But our Christmas Week crowd was enormous; the line to the Alamo sprawled around the block.

 

Maddy gaped up at the mission façade and asked, "Is this the White House?"

 

We should have known it was not going to go well. There was a big hold-up in the line. My beloved spotted a tall guard facing the other way, with long hair cascading over an 1830s uniform's epaulets. "Maybe we should tell HER who you are!" he whispered, loudly.

 

Just then, the guard turned around. "'. . . Tell HIM!'" he corrected. I saw a shadow pass over the guard's face. He put his back to us again.

 

So much for the red-carpet treatment from HIM. But that was OK: the reception desk was coming up, and that's where our relative had received her idol worship.

 

Bursting with prideful anticipation, chest sticking out, I told the guy, "I'm descended from Jacob Darst!"

 

He studied me briefly.

 

"That's nice," he said, stamping my brochure.

 

THAT'S "NICE"?

 

THAT'S IT?

 

He saw me sag, and said with pity, "You can take cuts in line if you want."

 

Take CUTS?

 

Stomp on the rights of others?

 

After Great-Great-Great-Grand-Whatever Jacob had given the last full measure of devotion, whether or not in ladies' clothing?

 

I declined.

 

It was embarrassing. Oh, my foolish pride. People get puffed up over connections to celebrities, sports teams, colleges, hometowns . . . but there's only one family name that really counts, and that's God's.

 

Thus chastened, I took the tour. It was all very interesting, anyway.

 

I finally stood before the big portrait of Jacob. Heyyy! My dad's wide-set eyes! That flowing, blond, Germanic hair! That dashing, jaunty, Darst-like pose!

 

He looked so good, so brave, so larger-than-life, that I got my mojo back. Yeah! I'm mainly related to God . . . but also to HIM!

 

And then I swear he winked, and said, "Remember the Alamo . . . and Go Big Red!" †