I was born into a large Catholic family in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada in 1954. My parents had twelve children. I had three older brothers and two sisters who were already married or living on their own. The other four boys and three girls lived with our parents in a four-bedroom house. Needless to say, time management and self-control were lessons I learned quickly—since there was only one bathroom!
My mom and dad were good, hard-working people who were well-liked by the whole neighborhood. My dad always had time to help others, even when it meant sacrifice on his part. Mom was like a general and kept everything going. But their top priority was getting us to the Catholic Church every Sunday.
Being raised in this religious system, I developed a great respect for our priests. They were God’s “middle men” in my mind. They were the only ones who read from the Bible. Our family did have a Bible that was about a foot thick but no one ever opened it except to insert death or wedding announcements. I also thought highly of the priests because they would make house calls with the doctor if anyone in our family was sick. The doctor would give us a needle or a prescription and the priest would “bless” the sick one and the house.
I also believed that the local priests took care of all our spiritual needs in God’s sight. Their relationship with God was like a blanket insurance policy that covered all the members of the church. Since the priest seemed to have the “God Department” taken care of for me, I figured the only thing left for me to do was lead a good life. To me, this meant being kind to others, not breaking any of the commandments (which at one time I thought was possible), doing good things in the community, and making sure to go to confession at least every two weeks in case I slipped up.
So this was my life. I put confidence in my priests and lived in a way that I was sure God would approve of. Yet, down deep, I knew there was something just not right.
I eventually married my wife, Shirley, in 1975. As time went on, I learned that some people actually did read their Bibles. Shirley had a Bible and read it. I tried reading hers but it made no sense to me at that time. Shirley encouraged me to go to a chapel she attended with her mother. So I did—as the chauffeur. I dropped the two ladies off and picked them up. That’s as close as I got to her ‘church.’
As time went on, we discovered that we would have no biological children. So we decided to become foster parents. One thing I always believed was that children should be taken to church so that they could learn about God. But this belief backfired on me: If I felt so strongly about the children learning about God, then why didn’t I go in too? And so my wife convinced me to get out of the parking lot and into the chapel.
I sat during the meetings and listened to the messages. Usually on the way home, my wife would ask me what I thought about the meeting. I remember my answers being about the same each time. “It was good but…why do they always talk directly to me when they give their message?” She would always just smile. I was sure this was some kind of conspiracy to make me one of “them”—you know, someone who actually reads his own Bible.
But it didn’t take long before I was arranging rides to Sunday School for the kids or just dropping them off again. My biggest concern was that I might become one of “them.” So I came up with a list of excuses why I didn’t go. When my mother-in-law passed away, my wife asked me to go with her every Sunday. Realizing what she was going through after her mother’s passing, I started going with her to the eleven o’clock meeting, the Family Bible Hour.
There was one speaker who always gave me the sense that not only was he talking right to me but he genuinely cared about me. His name was Mr. Boyd Nicholson. One Sunday, Boyd asked me if he and his son Jabe could come over that evening to have a talk. My mind said “No, no, no!” but the answer out of my mouth was “Yes.” When Boyd asked me what time would be good, I told him six o’clock. I also told him that I had a hockey game at seven o’clock so I could only give him about twenty minutes. I figured he would say that maybe another time would be better. Instead, he said: “That’s great! We’ll see you at six!” All the way home from the meeting (and most of the afternoon) I kept accusing my wife of setting me up. I kept asking her what they wanted and why she didn’t say that we had something else planned for the evening. Her answer to me was simple: “I didn’t say ‘Yes’; you did.” I asked her to call Boyd and cancel. I really didn’t care what excuse she gave. Again, her response was simple. “You want to cancel? Then you call him!”
Well, for whatever reason, I just couldn’t make the call. I remembered what I had told Boyd about my hockey game and that I could only give him and Jabe about twenty minutes. Plus, I was sure that my three parrots in the living room would drive them away pretty quickly. The birds always started to squawk up a storm whenever strangers came into our house.
Around 5:30, I started looking out the front window and walking to the door every five minutes or so. My wife asked me, “What are you doing?” I told her, “They’re probably going to show up early so they can have more time with me.” Without fail, she came up with one of those simple replies: “They told you six; then they’ll be here at six!”. Finally, six o’clock came and there was a knock at the door. It was “them.” I invited Boyd and Jabe into the living room and, just as if I had planned it, the birds started up. Jabe asked, “Are they always that noisy?”
Now I felt great. They wouldn’t last long with my birds around. I thought, “Maybe I could strike up a conversation about my birds and by the time we finish talking about them, it’ll be time for these guys to go.” My wife asked if they would like a cup of tea, then went out to the kitchen to make it. All three birds were still in hysterics with their ear-piercing shrieks. Boyd walked up to the cage and asked me the name of each parrot. What happened next got my attention totally. Boyd began to calmly talk to the birds. “Now listen, I need you three to be quiet. There’s something important that we need to talk to Len about.”
To my utter amazement, one by one, all three parrots became silent. So did I! Looking back, I wonder if it was almost like Daniel’s experience: My God hath sent His angel, and hath shut the birds’ mouths! In any case, I was now ready to listen.
Jabe started talking to me about good works and the fact that we are all sinners and that we can’t earn our way to heaven by the good things we do. This was pretty tough for a 46-year-old Catholic to hear, much less understand! The hardest part was that I couldn’t really argue with them because all their points were taken right from the Bible. I knew enough that I couldn’t argue with the Bible!
It wasn’t long before I had forgotten about my “twenty minute” plan—but not Boyd. He looked at the time and said, “Well, our time is up. But before we go, I would like you to have something.” It was a hard cover book entitled “One Day at a Time” by William MacDonald. “How much money do you want for it?” I asked. “Oh nothing, it’s just a little gift.” I was genuinely touched by his generosity. I knew that they both cared for me.
Well, nothing used to get in the way of my hockey but that evening I asked them both to stay because I had some questions I needed answered. I never did make it to hockey. We talked for a long time and that night, the seed was planted.
A short while after their visit, just before Boyd passed away, I trusted Christ as my Saviour. I acknowledged that I was the sinner mentioned in Romans 3:23, “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.” I also asked the Lord Jesus Christ into my heart, knowing that He came and died on that cross for me, and was raised from the dead to sit at the right hand of God so my sins could be forgiven. Having been raised in a religion that placed a lot of stress on my works, I was relieved to read the simple truth in Romans 10:9, “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.”
Since I have been saved, my wife and I have come into fellowship at a local assembly in St. Catharines. We have joined a small group Bible study held by a few folks from the chapel. We are studying the Gospel of John. I am also teaching a primary Sunday School class.
And I am really enjoying my new life in Christ.
Written by Len Webb