Going Home, Part IV, Faith

Faith caught me when I didn’t expect it, and I’ve been a happy captive ever since.

As I look back at the path of my faith journey, I can clearly see the imprint of my first footsteps in a little town on Narragansett Bay. 

When I was six, I memorized my first Bible verse—John 3:16. I’d been attending Vacation Bible School with a friend at a little Primitive Methodist church in North Providence, Rhode Island. One day the teacher promised a prize for everyone who could say the verse the following day. I went home, learned the unfamiliar words, and recited them perfectly the next morning. 

I don’t remember the prize, but years later, when I came to faith in Christ, I discovered that I already knew one of the most life-changing truths of Scripture: 

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” 

When I was eight, I was old enough to walk to church with my Portuguese godmother, Madrinha. Madrinha had a Texas-size heart in a Rhode Island-size body. The ultimate hostess, she always had cookies and soda in a jelly glass for me whenever I’d visit. But not on Sunday mornings. 

“If you want to take communion,” she’d say, reminding me of the Catholic guidelines, “you can’t eat or drink for an hour before.” 

I loved my Madrinha, and the chance to go anywhere with her was a treat, even without cookies. 

Although I didn’t come to faith until years later, attending church with Madrinha was a valuable part of my spiritual upbringing. Later, when many of my teenage friends questioned God’s existence, I never doubted. Madrinha’s example of reverence and respect for the things of God taught me never to treat matters of faith lightly. 

My mom and Catherine (L-R) Aren't they cute?

On my recent trip back home, I had the pleasure of attending church with Catherine, a family friend. I never tire of hearing her story. 

As a confused and struggling young woman, she sought answers in the Bible. The more she read, the more she realized how her sin separated her from God. Scripture taught her that God loved her with an everlasting love—so much that he sent his Son, Jesus, to die on a cross and pay the punishment for her sin. 

She learned that instead of trusting in her good works to earn a place in heaven, she needed to trust in what Christ had already done for her. One day, all alone in her home, she surrendered her life to God. 

Excited to share her newfound faith, Catherine opened her home to others who were interested in studying the Bible. From those studies sprang a vibrant, evangelical ministry that continues to this day. As I sang and worshiped alongside her, I marveled at how God uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things. 

Everywhere I looked in Rhode Island I saw glimpses of God. I saw his creative genius in the pink blush of the ocean at sunrise. I saw his timeliness and order in the ebb and flow of the tides. I saw his bountiful provision in the family members who extended gracious hospitality. I saw his boundless love as I experienced his gifts of laughter, love, and relationships. 

James 1:17 tells us, “Every good and every perfect gift comes from above, coming down from the father of lights.” 

My trip to Rhode Island reminded me that God is always at work, wherever we are. From the Sandhills of South Carolina to the seashores of Rhode Island, he eagerly reveals himself to those who seek him. From the tiniest grandchild bowing her head in thanks over breakfast to the family matriarch seeking wisdom for her future, God’s ears are attentive to our prayers. And to every soul who struggles under life’s load, he calls, 

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Mat. 11:28-30). 

What about you? As you look back at the faith steps you took on the road to a relationship with Jesus, which milestones stand out? Who did God use to guide and influence you? What experience are you most thankful for? I’d love to hear your stories. Leave a comment below and bless us all. 

And if you're not sure you have a relationship with God, click here to learn more.

Finally, if you'd like to hear more of my story, click here for a video testimonial. 

If you missed the other posts in this series, here are the links:
"There's Something Magical about Going Home"

"Going Home, Part II, Family"

"Going Home, Part III, Food"

"Going Home, Part V, How I Hope to Be Remembered"

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Going Home, Part III, Food

Food is very important to my family. 

Because we had three newcomers (my son-in-law and two grands) to initiate into the food fold during our recent trip to Rhode Island, we planned our itinerary around unique local delicacies.

Portuguese sweet bread (masa sovada) from Cornerstone Bakery awaited us at the homestead. Buttered to the edges and toasted under the broiler, it is manna with a Portuguese twist. 

“How can this taste so good?” my son-in-law wondered aloud. Eggs, butter, and a pound of sugar might have something to do with it, Son. 

The thought of malasadas, fluffy circles of fried dough coated with sugar, lured me from my bed early Sunday morning. Now that the first generation of Portuguese immigrant women has passed on, few are willing to go through the process of mixing the dough, letting it rise twice, then forming it into flat rounds ready to fry. Corner bakeries have taken their place, but only on Sunday mornings. 

Photo credit: Cassandra at www.frillyfabulous.wordpress.com

“Once they’re gone, they’re gone,” the baker said when I called to inquire, “so you’d better get here early.” 

The memory of watching my grandmother drop perfectly formed ovals into a steaming pan of oil, then pass them to me for sugaring propelled me out of the house early that Sunday morning. A block from the bakery, the smell of golden deliciousness drew me in like the siren’s song. I paused, inhaled deeply, and held my breath, eyes closed in delight. Gloriously content to stand and savor, I stood there until an angry growl from my empty stomach propelled me the rest of the way to the bakery. 

“The only advertisement you need is that smell,” I said to the dark-eyed girl behind the counter. She smiled, then blinked twice when I placed my order. 

“Twelve?” she repeated, certain she’d heard wrong. 

“Twelve,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” 

Del’s frozen lemonade, Maple Walnut ice cream, and the Newport Creamery’s legendary Awful Awful (a milkshake so named because it’s “Awful Big and Awful Good,”) guided the week's itinerary. 

My mom and her cousin shared a New England Clam Boil, fishing out little neck clams and dunking them into melted butter. My daughter bravely swallowed a bite of the rubbery shellfish. We passed a basket of Quito’s clam cakes around the table, and the coffee lovers among us licked over-filled cones of Rhode Island Lighthouse Coffee ice cream. Long walks around the bay helped counteract our dietary indescretions. 

For me, the greatest joy came not from eating the delicacies I’ve loved since childhood, but from sharing them. The ritual of food is risky. Would I have loved my new son-in-law even if he turned up his nose at my favorite ice cream? Absolutely. Did I love him more as we shared a grin and a nod over cones piled high with sweet deliciousness? You bet. 

One of my favorite snapshot is this one of my granddaughter. Smiling broadly, she holds a malasada in one hand and a piece of sweet bread in the other. That’s my girl. You may not look Portuguese, little one, but you are. 

God could have created us without taste buds. Without taste, eating would be utilitarian—a necessary obligation to keep us alive. Instead, he created us with the ability to taste, and savor, and delight. 

Then, to make it even sweeter, he placed us in families. Together we can share not only the necessary parts of cooking and eating, but also the relational parts. Around the table, against the backdrop of good food, we laugh, and talk, and share. We tempt each other with delicacies, squabble over who gets the last bite of something good, and compare likes and dislikes. Food is the magic elixir that soothes grumpy toddlers and hard working men. 

Sometimes, opportunities to gather around the table with distant family and close kin make me a little homesick for heaven. One day, we’ll gather at a feast that will put our simple meals to shame (Rev. 19). Family members from generations gone by will take their places around the table, we’ll join hands, and our Father will pronounce the blessing. 

“For the loved ones gathered here and for the food we are about to receive, we are grateful.” 

I’m looking forward to that celebration. I suspect you are, too. In the meantime, may we enjoy many happy meals around our family tables. 

Would you like to chime in? What’s your family’s favorite food? Do you have a special traditional meal that you’ve shared from one generation to another? Leave a comment below and share your story. If you’re reading by email, click here to visit Hungry for God online, scroll to the bottom of the post, and leave a comment there. 

If you missed the earlier blog posts in the Going Home series, click HERE to read “There’s Something Magical about Going Home,” or click HERE for “Going Home, Part II – Family."

And if you'd like a recipe for Malasadas, Portuguese doughnuts, click here to visit Cassandra at FrillyFabulous.

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There's Something Magical about Going Home

There’s something magical about going home. Poet Maya Angelou says, "The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are . . ."

My mom describes it as “a time warp, where the buildings stay the same, but the people get older.” 

Those of you who’ve followed my blog for any length of time know I’m a transplanted Yankee living in South Carolina. And while I happily live in the land of grits and boiled peanuts, my roots are deeply embedded in the rocky soil of New England.

Almost a century ago my Portuguese ancestors crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of a better life. My great-grandmother, known to me as Vovo’, and her three children sailed from the island of San Miguel in the Azores to Providence, Rhode Island. From there they traveled south to meet my great-grandfather, who had gone ahead years earlier to prepare a place for them. He’d found work in a textile mill in the tiny harbor town of Bristol, and there they settled.

Great-grandfather worked in the mill. Vovo’ worked in the mill. As soon as my great uncles were old enough, they worked in the mill. My grandmother, the only daughter, dropped out of school in the fourth grade after she’d learned to read, write, and perform basic arithmetic, to work in the mill. It was there she met my grandfather, a first-generation Italian from immigrant parents.

They had one daughter, my mother, who married a sailor boy from South Carolina stationed three towns over, in Newport. I was born in that sleepy little town on Narragansett Bay. And it was there that I recently returned.

Life comes full circle, they say, and this trip proved the old adage true. Fifty-five years ago my mom married her sailor boy in Newport. Last week we traveled to reunite with my daughter, also married to a sailor boy, now attending school in Newport. It was a nostalgic, symbolic trip.

My little town, Bristol, Rhode Island, was established in 1680, making it a pre-Revolutionary War town. Home to the Wampanoag indians (remember Squanto, who saved the pilgrims?), a few of its claims to fame include being the site of King Philip's tribal council seat, (you may remember him from the war that bears his name) and the oldest continuously celebrated Independence Day festivities in the United States.  The Herreshoff Boat company, housed in Bristol, built five consecutive America's Cup winners.

Taylor Swift and Conan O'Brien have homes in Westerly. Olivia Culpo, Miss USA and Miss Universe, calls RI home. The View cohost Elisabeth Hasselbeck was born and raised in RI. And soon-to-be New York Times best selling author, Lori Roeleveld, makes her home in New Hope. (She's just birthed a beautiful new book. Isn't it lovely?)

But I loved Bristol before Bristol was cool.

In the next few blog posts, I plan to share a few stories from the trip. I hope you enjoy the peek into my past. To whet your appetite, here are a few pictures. More to come.

“Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land. For I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you” (Gen. 28:15 ESV).

To read "Going Home, Part II," click HERE.

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