Christmas reflections 2008
I often wonder what it is about genealogy that fascinates people. All the hours of research yield a just an arrangement of names and relationships on the family tree. Most of them we have never met. Sometimes we’re fortunate to have stories to go with the names. I have substantial amounts of information about several of my ancestors but I’ve never heard anything about those who had a less desirable reputation.
Two of the gospel writers, Matthew and Luke thought genealogy was a big deal too. Matthew was writing to the Jews and traced Jesus’ genealogy back 42 generations to show that Jesus was a descendant of Abraham, the father of the Jews, and a descendant of David, which fulfilled Old Testament prophecies about the Messiah’s family lineage. Luke was writing to the Gentiles so he traced Jesus’genealogy back to Adam, to emphasize Jesus as Saviour of all people.
In Jesus’ lineage we find Judah who sold his brother into slavery, Jacob who cheated his way into first place, and David who committed adultery and murder. In the patriarchal culture of the day, the genealogical record was of fathers and sons, but Matthew’s account also lists 5 women, all of whom had some sort of scandal associated with them. Matthew’s account also lists a great many names of people that we know nothing about.
What can be said about this is that God’s plan was not thwarted one iota by all the flaws and failures down through that lineage. And even all those obscure and undistinguished others played a role.
The writings of my great-great grandfather Loren Webb reveals his passion for carrying forth the Good News that Jesus brought to us through his life and death. Sometimes I feel as if I’m picking up where he left off in my work behind the scenes at The City Mission. What makes genealogy fascinating for me is that sense of belonging to this family line and honoring my heritage through how I live my life.
From the first century til now, Jesus’ followers have been passing on the Good News of his redeeming love. That ancient message rings with hope and healing for the difficulties we face in this age.
Can you hear it?
Blessings to you and yours this Christmas and in the New Year!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Crossroads
In recognition of my brother Bob's birthday this week I want to share a story he told me while I 
was visiting with him in Maine. The story came to his mind while we were at the Owl's Head light house, a beautiful spot along midcoast Maine, guiding sea-faring vessels into the Rockland harbor.
The lower photo is Owl's Head point as it would be viewed approaching it from Rockland harbor. The top of the light house
is just barely visible just above the
trees in the center of the photo.
This particular spot is the first sighting that my brother had of Maine, from aboard the US Coast Guard Cutter, Laurel. He recalled with vivid detail the crossroads in his life that led to this place. He had just returned home from DuPage Horticulture School in West Chicago. He recalls walking into the living room where my mother was sitting on the couch next to her brother Jim who had had a career in the military. The draft was going to be enforced as a call to arms for the Vietnam war. Uncle Jim advised him to sign up for the Coast Guard which he promptly did.
......
He first went aboard the Laurel in Baltimore which was on its way back to Rockland, Maine, its home port. It was in early morning light of a spring day in1968 that he first caught sight of the rugged beauty of Maine's coast. He figured it to be a great place to be stationed but when the Laurel docked next to a fish factory he had some initial doubts.
Every year Bob attends the annual EMS conference held at the Samoset Resort overlooking Rockland Harbor with a view out to Owl's Head. And every year he reflects on all that has transpired in all the years since he first set sight on this place. "....sitting looking out at Owl’s Head I think of Tom Gopp and where his service time took him [Vietnam]* compared to the many many blessings I have experienced in Maine. I remain in awe of God’s plans and feel unworthy of the life we have had...."
Watch for more stories and photos of my brother's adventures on the Laurel, from hoisting 14 ton buoys out of the ocean, to search and rescue, to oceanographic studies in the Caribbean.
* Check out my post on April 6, 2008 for hometown remembrances of Tom Gopp and other of my brother's peers who came back from Vietnam in a coffin.
was visiting with him in Maine. The story came to his mind while we were at the Owl's Head light house, a beautiful spot along midcoast Maine, guiding sea-faring vessels into the Rockland harbor.The lower photo is Owl's Head point as it would be viewed approaching it from Rockland harbor. The top of the light house
is just barely visible just above the
trees in the center of the photo.
This particular spot is the first sighting that my brother had of Maine, from aboard the US Coast Guard Cutter, Laurel. He recalled with vivid detail the crossroads in his life that led to this place. He had just returned home from DuPage Horticulture School in West Chicago. He recalls walking into the living room where my mother was sitting on the couch next to her brother Jim who had had a career in the military. The draft was going to be enforced as a call to arms for the Vietnam war. Uncle Jim advised him to sign up for the Coast Guard which he promptly did.
......
He first went aboard the Laurel in Baltimore which was on its way back to Rockland, Maine, its home port. It was in early morning light of a spring day in1968 that he first caught sight of the rugged beauty of Maine's coast. He figured it to be a great place to be stationed but when the Laurel docked next to a fish factory he had some initial doubts.Every year Bob attends the annual EMS conference held at the Samoset Resort overlooking Rockland Harbor with a view out to Owl's Head. And every year he reflects on all that has transpired in all the years since he first set sight on this place. "....sitting looking out at Owl’s Head I think of Tom Gopp and where his service time took him [Vietnam]* compared to the many many blessings I have experienced in Maine. I remain in awe of God’s plans and feel unworthy of the life we have had...."
Watch for more stories and photos of my brother's adventures on the Laurel, from hoisting 14 ton buoys out of the ocean, to search and rescue, to oceanographic studies in the Caribbean.
* Check out my post on April 6, 2008 for hometown remembrances of Tom Gopp and other of my brother's peers who came back from Vietnam in a coffin.
Friday, December 19, 2008
To the Mystery
In lieu of Christmas letters I have gotten in the habit of writing reflections on the incredible and wondrous truth that God became a baby at Christmas. I don't think I 'll ever run out of thoughts to share about this centerpoint in history. I am, however, about to run out of time to get this year's reflections written. Just in case I don't get to it, I'm sharing one written a few years ago. It's timeless nature still makes it very relevant for today.
Christmas Greetings 2004
We sang a little song as children, perhaps in rote, but never-the-less it’s the mystery that surpasses all others. "Jesus loves me, this I know..." When the challenges of being "grownup" begin to overtake me, this little song takes me back to the simple truth that He wants me to come to Him as a little child. He says this not because little children are innocent but because they are incompetent in adult matters.
They don’t worry and scheme about how to make a buck to put food on the table, they just trust that they will be cared for.
And, children can live in dual worlds of both the real and unreal or mysterious. On a little hike in the woods with my great niece, we stopped at the footbridge to have a chat with the troll residing underneath. She directed this little drama, assigning me the role of troll. And so we carried on this conversation, the troll and her, that was both real and unreal at the same time.
There is so much of life that could rob me of such a wide-eyed wonder and mystery, so much that could make me question whether Jesus or God loves anybody, from the misguided who rage that somehow we must "get it right" to be in His family, to the awful death tolls of disease and war…
But there is a profound mystery even in struggle and suffering and death. Jesus likened His own life to the seed that must "die" as it falls into the dark earth, because only then can it bring forth life. This is the inescapable mystery of all time, that Jesus had to die to give us life, and greater still the mystery that His love for me and you is what empowered Him to lay down his life.
On this side of eternity I’ll never "get it right," except to believe the unbelievable... My only hope is in this mystery, that in His death and in his rising again, he cancels the power of sin and death and leads me to an infinite, glorious home, where pain and sorrow will be erased from our memory.
To the Mystery
A song by Michael Card
When the Father longed to show
A love He wanted us to know
He sent His only Son and so
Became a holy embryo
No fiction as fantastic and wild
A mother made by her own child
The helpless babe who cried
Was God Incarnate and man deified
Because the fall did devastate
Creator must now recreate
And so to take our sin
Was made like us so we could be like Him
That is the mystery
More than you can see
Give up on your pondering
And fall down on your knees.
Christmas Greetings 2004
We sang a little song as children, perhaps in rote, but never-the-less it’s the mystery that surpasses all others. "Jesus loves me, this I know..." When the challenges of being "grownup" begin to overtake me, this little song takes me back to the simple truth that He wants me to come to Him as a little child. He says this not because little children are innocent but because they are incompetent in adult matters.
They don’t worry and scheme about how to make a buck to put food on the table, they just trust that they will be cared for.
And, children can live in dual worlds of both the real and unreal or mysterious. On a little hike in the woods with my great niece, we stopped at the footbridge to have a chat with the troll residing underneath. She directed this little drama, assigning me the role of troll. And so we carried on this conversation, the troll and her, that was both real and unreal at the same time.
There is so much of life that could rob me of such a wide-eyed wonder and mystery, so much that could make me question whether Jesus or God loves anybody, from the misguided who rage that somehow we must "get it right" to be in His family, to the awful death tolls of disease and war…
But there is a profound mystery even in struggle and suffering and death. Jesus likened His own life to the seed that must "die" as it falls into the dark earth, because only then can it bring forth life. This is the inescapable mystery of all time, that Jesus had to die to give us life, and greater still the mystery that His love for me and you is what empowered Him to lay down his life.
On this side of eternity I’ll never "get it right," except to believe the unbelievable... My only hope is in this mystery, that in His death and in his rising again, he cancels the power of sin and death and leads me to an infinite, glorious home, where pain and sorrow will be erased from our memory.
To the Mystery
A song by Michael Card
When the Father longed to show
A love He wanted us to know
He sent His only Son and so
Became a holy embryo
No fiction as fantastic and wild
A mother made by her own child
The helpless babe who cried
Was God Incarnate and man deified
Because the fall did devastate
Creator must now recreate
And so to take our sin
Was made like us so we could be like Him
That is the mystery
More than you can see
Give up on your pondering
And fall down on your knees.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Band of brothers...and sisters
After writing the previous post pertaining to the death of my great great grandfather Loren Webb, I recalled that his daughter, Mabelle Lorena Webb Hester also had written a poem reflecting on his death . I think we found this poem in the collection of family artifacts held by my mother's cousin, David Hester.
Lines on the death of L. Webb
1st
When thou art quietly sleeping
Thy last long sleep, near thy children’s home;
Tho’ you often spake of yourself as an exile,
Compelled from friends and kindred to roam.
2nd
You thought your grave would be far from home,
Too far for your loved ones ever to see;
That no kindred’s hand would plant roses there,
Or shed thereon a tear for thee.
3rd
But I said, the wild flowers of that sunny clime
On the lovely spot would fade and bloom;
And the pure dew-drops and the beautiful rain
Would be the tears to bathe the tomb.
4th
And those sweet singing birds you loved so well.
Their carols will weave, when ought else is nigh;
And the Angels, you know, will remember the spot;
Tho it never be seen by mortal eye.
5th
Then thy answer was like the trusting – self
Yes, why should care where the body be
My spirit will be in the realm of rest,
And that will friends and home for me.
6th
And as I read of those strangers kind
Of the friends thy Savior had raised up for you
I knew he had made all the rough places smooth;
That his hand had led thee all the way through.
7th
Yes, thou hast found thy long sought rest,
Where sorrow and sighing sank to sleep
Where the weary and weepers come
And they never again shall toil and weep,
8th
We are coming to greet thee when our work is done
Our appointed time with patience we wait
A band of brothers, of sisters we come
Wait for us brother, at the Golden Gate.
-Belle Webb
Band of brothers everywhere
The occasion of my great-great grandfather Loren Webb's death was significant enough to deserve mention in the extensive biography of Rev. John B. Mc Ferrin, a preacher with the Methodist Episcopal Church-South during the Civil War era. (Please refer back to my post on April 7, 2008 for Loren's obituary written by Rev. Mc Ferrin, and further description of the surrounding circumstances.) Loren Webb had been a preacher with the Methodist Episcopal Church - North.
With many thanks again to cousin Jonathan Webb Deiss who located/acquired a copy of this biography and located the pages therein that refer to Loren, here is the text in its entirety:
In the winter of 1881 the Rev. Loren Webb, a superannuated minister of the New York East Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, lay dying in the railroad depot in Nashville, Tennessee. To Dr. McFerrin, who had hastened to his side, he said: “I want a place to die: I sent for a Methodist preacher; we are a band of brothers everywhere.” The Doctor replied: “Brother, we are one in love; and here we, in the hour of trial, know no North, no South.” A Northern Methodist preacher (the Rev. E. Warriner) thus put this affecting incident into verse:
“We are the Band of Brothers Everywhere”
The watchman stood in silence on the tower,
For want of strength to sound the clarion call;
He only watched for the appointed hour
His station to resign on Zion's wall.
The summons came; the faithful herald heard;
God gave him strength for one more bugle blast,
And whispered in his ear a thrilling word
To utter—it should be his best and last.
The watchman put the trumpet to his mouth;
Webb's dying words rang out upon the air:
“John Wesley's legions know no North, no South;
We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
No bickerings pollute the dying breath,
No thought of latitude when heaven is near;
In sorrow, trial, loneliness, and death,
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
The bonds of holy brotherhood are strong,
A common name and heritage we share,
Sections and feuds can not estrange us long;
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
No pass-word, grip, or signal we require;
Distress may come, but with it tender care;
Kind arms encircle us when we expire:
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
O'er the wide world it may be ours to roam,
And we may fall—it shall not matter where--
Some helper we shall find, though far from home;
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Let each in charity act well his part;
All harsh upholdings let us hence forbear;
This watch-word carry in each loving heart:
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Pass the word along the Methodist lines all around the world. We are a band of brothers everywhere! The day is coming when some bard, inspired by the same spirit, amid the still happier conditions that will bless the Church of God as it nears its final triumph and promised glory, will sing a still nobler song with the same sweet refrain: “We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Excerpted from John B. McFerrin, A Biography, by O.P. Fitzgerald, D.D.; Nashville, Tennessee: Publishing House of the M.E. Church, South. J.D. Barbee, Agent, 1888, pp. 399-400. This book is digitized and made available online by Google Book Search: http://books.google.com/
With many thanks again to cousin Jonathan Webb Deiss who located/acquired a copy of this biography and located the pages therein that refer to Loren, here is the text in its entirety:
In the winter of 1881 the Rev. Loren Webb, a superannuated minister of the New York East Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, lay dying in the railroad depot in Nashville, Tennessee. To Dr. McFerrin, who had hastened to his side, he said: “I want a place to die: I sent for a Methodist preacher; we are a band of brothers everywhere.” The Doctor replied: “Brother, we are one in love; and here we, in the hour of trial, know no North, no South.” A Northern Methodist preacher (the Rev. E. Warriner) thus put this affecting incident into verse:
“We are the Band of Brothers Everywhere”
The watchman stood in silence on the tower,
For want of strength to sound the clarion call;
He only watched for the appointed hour
His station to resign on Zion's wall.
The summons came; the faithful herald heard;
God gave him strength for one more bugle blast,
And whispered in his ear a thrilling word
To utter—it should be his best and last.
The watchman put the trumpet to his mouth;
Webb's dying words rang out upon the air:
“John Wesley's legions know no North, no South;
We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
No bickerings pollute the dying breath,
No thought of latitude when heaven is near;
In sorrow, trial, loneliness, and death,
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
The bonds of holy brotherhood are strong,
A common name and heritage we share,
Sections and feuds can not estrange us long;
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
No pass-word, grip, or signal we require;
Distress may come, but with it tender care;
Kind arms encircle us when we expire:
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
O'er the wide world it may be ours to roam,
And we may fall—it shall not matter where--
Some helper we shall find, though far from home;
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Let each in charity act well his part;
All harsh upholdings let us hence forbear;
This watch-word carry in each loving heart:
“We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Pass the word along the Methodist lines all around the world. We are a band of brothers everywhere! The day is coming when some bard, inspired by the same spirit, amid the still happier conditions that will bless the Church of God as it nears its final triumph and promised glory, will sing a still nobler song with the same sweet refrain: “We are a band of brothers everywhere.”
Excerpted from John B. McFerrin, A Biography, by O.P. Fitzgerald, D.D.; Nashville, Tennessee: Publishing House of the M.E. Church, South. J.D. Barbee, Agent, 1888, pp. 399-400. This book is digitized and made available online by Google Book Search: http://books.google.com/
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Forefathers and mothers
I turned on the radio a couple of weeks ago to hear mention of one of my forefathers (Great Grandfather x10 to be exact). The story was about the voyage of the Mayflower and the forefather's name was William Bradford who became the Governor of the Plymouth Colony. What I was hearing was actually the broadcast of an audio book entitled Thanksgiving: A Time to Remember. This was in the context of a radio program called Family Life Today on the Moody Radio Network. The audio book was broadcast over the course of that entire week. You can hear all the segments at this site: http://www.familylife.com/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=dnJHKLNnFoG&b=3781311&ct=6258649 . You also can purchase the audio book separately.
It was my Grandfather Webb Hester who had discovered the connection to William Bradford. To this day we do not know how he made that discovery, which took place long before personal computers. In recent years cousin Jonathan Webb Deiss (and genealogical researcher) verified the connection through all the required documentation.
When the pilgrims first caught sight of land after 97 days at sea, they recited together the Psalm of Thanksgiving,
Psalm 100 (NLT)
Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth!
Worship the Lord with gladness. Come before him, singing with joy.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God! He made us, and we are his.
We are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good. His unfailing love continues forever,
and his faithfulness continues to each generation.
It was my Grandfather Webb Hester who had discovered the connection to William Bradford. To this day we do not know how he made that discovery, which took place long before personal computers. In recent years cousin Jonathan Webb Deiss (and genealogical researcher) verified the connection through all the required documentation.
When the pilgrims first caught sight of land after 97 days at sea, they recited together the Psalm of Thanksgiving,
Psalm 100 (NLT)
Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth!
Worship the Lord with gladness. Come before him, singing with joy.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God! He made us, and we are his.
We are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good. His unfailing love continues forever,
and his faithfulness continues to each generation.
The generations from Gov. Bradford to my generation, my forefathers and mothers:
Gen 1 Gov. William Bradford ( and Alice Carpenter)
Gen 2 William Bradford (and Alice Richards)
Gen 3 Hannah Bradford (and Joshua Ripley)
Gen 4 Hannah Ripley (and Samuel Webb)
Gen 5 Ebenezer Webb (and Ruth Crane)
Gen 6 Darius Webb (and Deborah Palmer)
Gen 7 David Webb (and Lydia Parmalee)
Gen 8 Oliver Webb (and Louisa Ellis)
Gen 9 Loren Webb (and Francis Hannah Holmes)
Gen 10 Mabelle L. Webb (and Finlay Hester)
Gen 11 Webb Hester (and Mary Sullivan)
Gen 12 Elizabeth Hester (and Vinton Phillips)
Gen 13 John Robert, Deborah Mary and Daniel Lee Phillips
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Storytelling
I've always admired good story-tellers. I'm pretty good at writing stories (as I hope my readers agree) but not so good at telling them. Whenever I get a chance I tune in to Garrison Keillor's monologue on the public radio show called Prairie Home Companion. He always starts out the story with, "It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegone, my home town..." http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/about/
Photographs have a way of eliciting stories. Like this last Sunday when I was visiting with my parents. We were looking at the black and white snapshot in the April 13th blog post entitled Sensory Memories, Grandma and Grandpa Phillips on the back step of their farm house, my older brother Bob and I sitting with them. Dad recalled the time we went to visit them and they weren't home. Dad peeked in through the window to see a pie sitting on the kitchen counter (a very common event I might add). We got the window opened, slipped in, retrieved a piece of pie and quietly left. The next time we went to visit the window was nailed shut.
Dad can tell stories from many decades past as if they happened yesterday and with great feeling. Like the one about horse team. The neighborhood farmers would take turns helping each other bring in the harvest. There was one particular rut that other horse teams had a tendency to get stuck in. He intentionally drove their own team right into the rut (which made his own Dad fume), to demonstrate the superior strength of their team and the skill of the driver.
Then there are the war stories, the truck-driving stories, the stories derived from the daily coffee huddle at McDonalds, the story about the mulberry tree that disappeared...
Dad tells the story of when he and Mom were on a trip and he passed the long hours on the road with the telling of stories. Finally he told Mom he couldn't think of anything else to say. Mom said, "Why don't you shut up for a while then." (She's good with the one-liners like that.) But then that's a lead-in to my own story about Dad asking us to hit the O-F-F button on the TV and, "lets enjoy a moment of silence in honor of dear ol' Dad."
From my post on April 1, 2008:
"Everybody is a story. When I was a child, people sat around kitchen tables and told their stories. We don't do that so much any more. Sitting around the table telling stories is not just a way of passing time. It is the way the wisdom gets passed along. The stuff that helps us to live a life worth remembering. Despite the awesome powers of technology many of us still do not live very well. We may need to listen to each other's stories again."Quoted from:Kitchen Table Wisdom by Rachel Naomi Remenhttp://www.rachelremen.com/ktw.htmlPhotographs have a way of eliciting stories. Like this last Sunday when I was visiting with my parents. We were looking at the black and white snapshot in the April 13th blog post entitled Sensory Memories, Grandma and Grandpa Phillips on the back step of their farm house, my older brother Bob and I sitting with them. Dad recalled the time we went to visit them and they weren't home. Dad peeked in through the window to see a pie sitting on the kitchen counter (a very common event I might add). We got the window opened, slipped in, retrieved a piece of pie and quietly left. The next time we went to visit the window was nailed shut.
Dad can tell stories from many decades past as if they happened yesterday and with great feeling. Like the one about horse team. The neighborhood farmers would take turns helping each other bring in the harvest. There was one particular rut that other horse teams had a tendency to get stuck in. He intentionally drove their own team right into the rut (which made his own Dad fume), to demonstrate the superior strength of their team and the skill of the driver.
Then there are the war stories, the truck-driving stories, the stories derived from the daily coffee huddle at McDonalds, the story about the mulberry tree that disappeared...
Dad tells the story of when he and Mom were on a trip and he passed the long hours on the road with the telling of stories. Finally he told Mom he couldn't think of anything else to say. Mom said, "Why don't you shut up for a while then." (She's good with the one-liners like that.) But then that's a lead-in to my own story about Dad asking us to hit the O-F-F button on the TV and, "lets enjoy a moment of silence in honor of dear ol' Dad."
I have several blog posts having to do with remembering and indeed that's what storytelling helps us to do. We all have stories from our past that we'd rather not be reminded of. Those are best forgotten. Otherwise, keep telling and retelling those stories....
Happy Birthday Dad!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)