My name is William Gordon McCabe Blocker, whose mother is
Katharine McCabe Blocker, who’s father is…
William Gordon McCabe, whose father is…
William Gordon McCabe, whose father is…
William Gordon McCabe, whose father is…
Reverend John Collins McCabe, whose wife was…
Elizabeth Sophia Gordon Taylor, whose parents are…
Anna Maria Gordon and James Lewis Taylor (son of signer of Declaration of Independence George Taylor) and adopted father (and uncle)…William Lewis Gordon, who’s mother is…
Elizabeth Gordon, who’s father is…
Lewis Gordon, who immigrated to America from Scotland and came from the line of…
Galloway Scots, who were called “The Gay Gordons”, who were from Earlston, Lochinvar, and…Kenmure, the place of…
The Kenmure Castle, in New Galloway Scotland.
This summer, on a whim, my wife and I booked a flight to Manchester, UK. Then we hopped on the train to Lockerbie Scotland. Then we grabbed a taxi to new Galloway. We were dropped off at one of the only two Inns that are open in what seem to be a ghost town (albeit one that looked like it had been used as inspiration for The Shire). But it wasn’t a ghost town. The people there were simple, quaint, and resting on a Sunday afternoon. They were not be ‘busy’ like us.
We mentioned Kenmure to the Inn Keeper named David. He quickly started telling us his childhood stories when he would play there and walk around the ruins. His stories were aided by the many pictures of the castle on the wall. After his first of many storytelling sessions he pointed us in the right direction and we headed out for our final part of the journey.
We walked across a beautiful bridge that made my wife stop several times to take pictures. We meandered down a narrow road dodging the occasional car that was driving on the opposite side of the road (and our brains as we had to constantly check our impulse to look the wrong way). We passed by a seemingly empty Episcopal church with bells going off at 5 PM. We walked past a few interesting houses and monuments. As we turned the bend we saw the long, narrow Main Street of New Galloway, Scotland, home of Kenmure.
We window shopped the various establishments. Some stops seemed to be looking back in time. Others seemed to be looking sideways across culture. Some both. There was the local community theater. There was the occasional tea shop. We even saw another Inn that had closed by the name of Kenmure. Lots of residences were side-by-side with the shops with clever names on the door. As the sun was setting we passed the quaint New Galloway Gold Club course with a very modest clubhouse and an opening first hole that looked like a bright green ski slope.
Main Street was essentially behind us and we found ourselves on a heavily wooded country road. Our senses were heightened as we continued to dodge cars that were driving down, not the left, not the right, but the middle of the road. They were not expecting Americans to take a Sunday stroll on the only way in and out of town. We came upon another sign that had the word ‘Kenmure’ on it. But it was just an old house that didn’t seem to have any signs of life. Next to it was an obscure looking gate. No sign of a castle yet for sure. We were honestly lucky to see anything but trees.
The gate looked locked but as I tested the latch it opened right up. I held it open for my wife Shawna and we walked down the narrow, heavily, wooded path. We both began to suspect that either they were no more ruins or perhaps our Google pin wasn’t exactly accurate. I told my wife I would just walk up ahead to the end of the path just as we were going to give up hope. I proactively called for a taxi to come pick us up.
And the as I lifted my eyes from my phone I scanned up and up to see a large hill with a majestic, old castle staring back at me. I exclaimed, “Holy $*@!” as Shawna was watching me only able to see me and the end of the path. I felt like a kid again watching Indiana Jones when they finally stumble on the prized artifact from history.
The Kenmure Castle, home of my great, great, great, great great, great, great, great, great grandfathers and grandmothers and cousins was just staring back at me. We started approaching one step at a time. One step looking up at the castle. One step looking down and making sure we didn’t trip on the rocks, tall grass, or occasional hole. A stone staircase was hidden by some overgrowth. I started to climb it as my wife took a sloping path around to see if she could get up that way. Step, step, step, I counted each one pushing back the tall grass. One flight, then another, then a few more steps up on to the green plateau.
The yard in front seemed to exist just to allow others to stand there and see the beauty from a distance. I instinctively pulled out my phone to snap some shots. My caption in my head was written on the pictures saying, “We found it!” My wife made it up the other side and we both stood there and stared. The ornate window carvings, the many chimneys, the stone doorways, the evidence of an old spiral staircase were all fun to inspect and speculate about.
As I sent pictures back home to my extended family and immediate family I could seem them scratching their heads and asking, “Why?” In unconscious way I asked myself the same question, “Why did I go back here?” The answer is found in a word that my brother Chris taught me: Sankofa
Sankofa is an Akan term that literally means, “to go back and get it.” (To get) the “gems” or knowledge of the past upon which wisdom is based; it also signifies the generation to come that would benefit from that wisdom. (It is) often associated with the proverb, “Se wo were fi na wosankofa a yenkyi,” which translates to, “It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten.” The Akan believe that the past illuminates the present and that the search for knowledge is a life-long process. (san = “to return”) + (ko = “to go”) + (fa = “to look, to seek and take”)
https://web.archive.org/web/20110420131901/http://ctl.du.edu/spirituals/literature/sankofa.cfm
I can’t claim that I’ve learned everything I could from my brother Chris about this word and then I set out intentionally on a series of pilgrimages. But I can say what he taught me validated unformed thoughts in my mind and fanned flames in my heart that seemed to attach quickly to his insight. The Holy Spirit does many things in our lives. One of them is to remind us of things we forget. And the Holy Spirit knows it’s easy to forget my family, heritage, history, genealogy, and all the significance wrapped up into all of the above.
In my culture and upbringing I’ve always learned about going forward and blessing the next generation, advancing our society, getting it right, etc.. This plays out in countless, unwritten, social norms. All this seemed well intended, even loving or sacrificial for the next generation. But these experiences as a teenager also accidentally helped me to focus on myself, ignore past generations, and teach me to teach my children to do to the same. When I was in high school, I was far more concerned about winning the soccer state championship, getting the girl I had a crush on to go to prom with me, or making sure our old 78 Plymouth Duster could make it for the rest of my senior year. I was completely unaware that my mother’s father was on the board of regents at Clemson University for the last 15 years of his life and had a building named after him. I was unconscious about my father’s father’s accomplishments as the first President of the University of Texas Medical Branch. I was oblivious to the scores of milestones that my father’s mother accomplished as a woman in higher education in the early 20th century. And this was just scratching the surface back one or two generations. I couldn’t even name all my great grandparents, much less say anything interesting about them.
As I reflect on Scripture God has a way of reminding us of the heritage we can easily forget. I did a quick search of how often God was literally named by simply referencing past generations of people who trusted Him. I made some quick notes on how many times it occurred.
The God of Abraham…(16 times with inclusions of Isaac and Jacob)
The God of Jacob (13 times by itself)
The God of Israel (aka Jacob, 173 times)
The God of David (4 times)
The God of your father (23 times in singular and plural)
When the birth of our Savior is announced, and relief is finally coming the people of God and His closest followers don’t look forward. They look back. They look back on generations of faithfulness. They look back on generations of God’s loyal love. They see connections and a unified story. Mary’s Magnificat is a beautiful example of this.
My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever.
Luke 1:47-55 ESV
My mother has kept so many artifacts about my life. I used to ask her for my old prom pictures, soccer awards, or the occasional VHS tape recording of my talent show in elementary school. And yet recently, as I dig through boxes and scrapbooks, I’m prompted to dig deeper and deeper. I found old pictures of memories I don’t remember. I see me sitting on her lap at a place called Kenmure. In this case, not Kenmure, Scotland, but Kenmure, North Carolina, our family property named after its ancient predecessor 3,823 miles away. Recently I’ve been back to Kenmure, North Carolina (once my mother’s childhood summer home) and seen pictures of the castle ruins on the wall of the clubhouse. I can’t wait to go back there and show my own current personal photos to the custodians, residents, and staff.
Yes, Sankofa seems to be more than just a theme from our African brothers and sisters in Ghana. It seems to be deeply embedded into God’s biblical story, but perhaps not my middle-class suburban American story. Perhaps our African brothers and sisters are our prophets to teach us these ways and remind us. I know we needed it growing up. And I know I need it now.
Here’s to the next journey back, both as I travel on pilgrimage and travel back in my heart. I pray what I find continues to honor those in my family’s past and bless those in my family’s future.
For the glory of the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob, and even the God of the Gordon family of Kenmure Scotland.
Amen