I am an immigrant to these shores. On December 31, 2015, I arrived in the USA with two suitcases and a fiancé visa. It was the end of one journey and the beginning of another. 

My family has a history of migrating. My mother’s parents, who were Scottish, left Dumfries around the turn of the twentieth century and traveled 13,500 miles to New Zealand. They worked on a farm and had raised seven children. It was a very different time. My mother remembers riding to school on a horse. They had hard lives - at one point the farmhouse where they lived burned to the ground - but all the children were smart and lively and went on to have families of their own. My uncle Ian even became a knight and High Court judge. 

My great-great grandfather on my father’s side left England in the mid 19th century and also traveled to New Zealand. A few years ago my cousin Paul, who lives near Washington DC, discovered another family story. I learned that my great-great-great-great grandfather George Humphrys was born in South St, Philadelphia, in 1801. George’s parents were members of the Non-Conformist church in Birmingham, England, and moved to the United States in the late 18th century, after their chapel and a family home were destroyed by public riots.

A human life is woven from many different strands. I had not known the story of my non-conforming ancestors, nor of the violence from which they fled. Our sometimes romantic view of the past - think Jane Austen movie adaptations - often hide other, more vivid realities. The parents of young George Humphrys escaped to Philadelphia, and built a new life there. 

I became an American citizen in 2019. How that happened is a whole story in itself, but the long process culminated in an interview at USCIS in Philadelphia. The hardest question I was asked that day was: “what is the color of your bedroom wall?” Fortunately, I gave the right answer, or at least the same one as my wife, who was interviewed separately. 

Tomorrow I will be joining other Americans in celebrating Thanksgiving. For most of my life this annual celebration did not form part of my or my family’s experience or tradition. Its origins go back to October 1621, when the pilgrims who settled here celebrated their first Thanksgiving. Having crossed from England to America, they encountered many hardships and challenges, including a bitterly cold winter. Their survival was a tribute to the resilience of the human spirit and to the providence of God.

All of us depend, to a greater or lesser degree, on the providence of God. In those pre-internet days, my ancestors had limited knowledge of where they were going. They traveled in hope and in search of freedom. Today, the offer of freedom continues to lure people to these shores. There is something in the human soul which seeks out freedom wherever it can. Our most grateful immigrants, such as those from former eastern bloc communist countries, are those who have experienced its opposite: dictatorship and the curtailing of freedom.

Today, we are blessed to live in a free country, albeit one sadly riven with division and disagreement. I pray that at Thanksgiving we can put those disagreements to one side and take time to give thanks for the blessing of freedom and for the gift of one another. I will be attending a service of Holy Eucharist. The Eucharist, which means “good thanksgiving,” has been our central act of thanksgiving for 2,000 years. It unites us to Christ, who offers us freedom on a cosmic scale. Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross has won for us the gift of eternal life.

When I think of my ancestors who undertook those long and perilous journeys, I am inspired by their courage and resilience. At Thanksgiving I will raise a glass to their memory, and remind myself that venturing into the unknown, with its mixture of uncertainty and blessing, is often necessary for new life and growth. I will also remember the precious gift of freedom, and give thanks to our God who continues to provide for us.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Father David