It had been almost 40 years since I last visited my childhood home in Wellesley, Massachusetts. I lived here from 1960 to 1972. My son, Keith, was with me and took this picture. It was great to see the old place and neighborhood. It was just as I remembered it. A few things had changed, but everything looked so familiar. If only for a moment, I felt like I was finally home again. I wanted to walk through the kitchen door and find my mom cooking dinner, hopefully with a batch of her potato pancakes or delicious milk gravy on toast. The old memories came flooding back of how things once were. They were happy days, and I once again wished that I'd never moved away.
I imagined going back in time and seeing my old friends, Barry and Eddie. It had now been a lifetime since I last saw them. Even after all these years, there are days when I still think of them. I miss all the fun we had together, just being kids. I then thought about how I would have loved to return, just for a day, and visit my younger self. I wanted to tell him that everything would work out—that moving away from here wouldn't be the end of the world. Even though there were very dark and sad days ahead, lonely days, they would eventually pass away.
I would also have told him to trust the Lord always with his whole heart, that God loves him and has a wonderful plan for his life. That in the end, He works everything out for good, even when it seems the sad times will never end. I'd then look deeply into his eyes and seriously warn him never to consider suicide. He had a life worth living, and I was the proof. If I had time, I might even try to inspire him with the story of his ancestors' arrival on the Mayflower and tell him of their great faith and courage—how they lived and died on the strength of their faith. A faith that he will likewise have to overcome life's trials.
The Pilgrims' story was fresh in my mind. This trip back to New England was specifically to visit Plymouth and return to my ancestral and spiritual roots. I wanted to see for myself where it all began. I had read a number of books about the Pilgrims, but nothing compares to visiting the same hallowed ground where a great historical drama once took place. I was glad to have my son with me to share in the experience.
Here is a list of my ancestral family members who were passengers on the Mayflower. You'll notice that half tragically died during the first winter from illness. John Howland, my 9th great-grandfather, was the passenger who famously fell overboard during a violent storm at sea and nearly drowned. He miraculously caught hold of a single rope trailing in the water and was rescued. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here to write this!
1. John Howland – 9th great-grandfather
2. John Tilley – 10th great-grandfather (Died during the first winter)
3. Joan Tilley – 10th great-grandmother (Died during the first winter)
4. Elizabeth Tilley – 9th great-grandmother, daughter of John and Joan Tilley
5. Edward Tilley – 11th great-uncle (Died during the first winter)
6. Agnes Tilley – Wife of my 11th great-uncle (Died during the first winter)
7. Henry Samson- Nephew of the wife of my 11th great-uncle
8. Humility Cooper – Niece of the wife of my 11th great-uncle
When I first stepped aboard the Mayflower II, it seemed so—well, tiny. In the picture above, you can see the ship behind me. While walking below deck, I tried to imagine all 102 passengers crammed into such a small space. I would have assumed no more than 30 could live comfortably down there. That's the point: it wasn't a pleasure cruise. Their living conditions were horrible—wet, stinky, filthy, and cramped—the kind of environment that breeds disease. They endured living aboard ship for a month and a half, even before setting sail. The additional 66 days to cross the Atlantic were not without peril. There were even more months spent at anchor while shelter on land was prepared. While they waited, the already hazardous winter conditions deteriorated, illness spread, and almost half of the passengers were dead before the following spring.
Rising above Plymouth's harbor is Cole's Hill. There is a sarcophagus there as a memorial to those that died during the first year. Seeing the names of four of my relatives engraved in stone made the experience so much more real. They wanted to plant a colony, as stated in the Mayflower Compact: "...Having undertaken for the Glory of God, and Advancement of the Christian Faith, and the Honour of our King and Country." They died for a cause much greater than themselves. They wanted to freely worship God in liberty. The faith of the survivors sustained them as they continued on with their noble venture. When the Mayflower sailed back to England the following spring, there was not one surviving passenger who chose to return. What better testament to their faith!
A short distance beyond downtown Plymouth is the National Monument to the Forefathers. It commemorates the Mayflower Pilgrims: "In remembrance of their labors, sacrifices, and sufferings for the cause of civil and religious liberty." The left and right panels contain the names of the passengers. Keith took a picture of me standing at its base. It's the largest solid granite monument in North America. Standing prominently on the main pedestal is Faith. Her right hand is extended upward as she points her finger towards heaven. Her faith is in the God of the Bible, in Jesus Christ—the only faith that can bring true liberty. In Faith's left hand is an open Bible and the star on her head signifies wisdom from reading God's word.
The rear panel contains a famous quote from Pilgrim Governor William Bradford: "Thus out of small beginnings greater things have been produced by His hand that made all things of nothing and gives being to all things that are; and as one small candle may light a thousand, so the light here kindled hath shone unto many, yea in some sort to our whole nation; let the glorious name of Jehovah have all praise."
If you wish to learn more about the National Monument to the Forefathers and the full meaning of its many statues and symbols, then consider watching this short video with Kirk Cameron and Dr. Marshall Foster. It's from the documentary film, Monumental - In Search Of America's National Treasure. They call the monument a matrix of liberty and rightly state that without Faith it all falls apart.
This all brings me back to my own journey of faith and to the steps of the Wellesley Hills Congregational Church. Keith and I stopped here after visiting my former home. This is where my parents first took me to church and where I regularly attended Sunday school as a child. We then headed over to Captain Marden's restaurant for some of New England's best seafood. It was the Captain who ushered with my dad at church, and both he and his wife, Shirley, became good friends of my parents. I was pleasantly surprised to find him working that day, and both he and his daughter, Nancy, came to our table and sat for a nice visit. Ever since I can remember, I always liked his first name, Keith, and decided to use it in naming my son.
It's sad for me to say that I don't have any memories from my Sunday school days. Not even one lesson. It's pretty much a blank. I vaguely remember someone playing a piano in class. That's about it. The familiar seems to get lost in the past. I just remember how beautiful the old stone church building was, with its stain glass windows. Strangely, I vividly remember seeing an Amana microwave oven for the first time and learning that it cooked from the inside out. I was amazed enough to remember it, but nothing else.
When I was eight years old, I received my first grown-up Bible. I only remember this because I still have it. It has my name engraved in gold letters on the black leather cover. Inside was a "Presented" page signed by the ministers. I treasured it but didn't read it—at least not at first. I only remember looking at its pictures, like the one of Noah building the ark. I had struggled with learning to read and even had a tutor come to my house to teach me phonics. Back then, you wouldn't find me reading anything other than maybe a favorite comic book. It would be another fourteen years before I'd finally open its pages again.
It happened during one of the darkest and loneliest days of my life when I desperately needed God to save me as I seriously considered suicide. It's then too that I first learned to pray. While I don't want to get ahead of the story, I do want you to know that God is still in the miracle business. He does answer prayer. There is always hope. And never ever give up!
You'll notice in the following pictures that my first Bible is basically in unused mint condition. I'm not sure if I ever read it cover to cover. It's been more like a museum piece on my bookshelf for almost 50 years. When it first came off the bookshelf, God used it to spark my faith. It would later be my wife's Bible that would fan it to a flame.
Having personally seen the engraved names of my Pilgrim ancestors on statues and memorials, it became strikingly similar and as memorable to see my own name engraved on my Bible. Though I'm twelve generations removed, their faith had become my faith as their God is my God! This may sound silly, but I'm again reminded of the microwave oven and how it operates similar to the seed of God's Word that was planted in a young boy's heart in Sunday school. Even though I couldn't see it, my faith was growing (cooking) from the inside out. It was just the beginning...God was at work!
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
Hebrews 11:1 (KJV)
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