Tim Schmig is at the grave of Adoniram Judson, telling the remarkable story of how Adoniram grew up in a Christian home, lost his faith in college, and how he returned to the Lord!WATCH THE FULL VIDEO HERE
Transcript:
What that means—and it’s often a Jewish tradition, though others pick it up too—is simply, “I came to visit you.”
In a military cemetery, if you see a coin on a headstone, each denomination carries a specific meaning as a way to honor the veteran and let their family know someone stopped by:
- A penny means: “I visited and recognized your service.”
- A nickel means: “We trained together at boot camp.”
- A dime means: “We served together in the same unit, company, barracks, or capacity.”
- A quarter means: “I was there when you were killed in action.”
That’s the tradition, though it’s more symbolic than universal—similar to the old yarn about statues of men on horseback.
You know that one: If all four of the horse’s feet are on the ground, the rider died of natural causes. One leg raised means he was wounded in battle and later died from those wounds. Two legs up means he was killed in action. It holds for many equestrian statues, but not all—like the famous one of Andrew Jackson in New Orleans’ Jackson Square. There, the horse is reared up on its hind legs, and Jackson has his hat off in salute. The story some tell is that a Creole woman (half French, half Black) once confronted Jackson on the street for not tipping his hat to her, and he refused, saying she was beneath him. Years later, when the city commissioned the statue, her descendant supposedly sculpted it so Jackson would forever tip his hat toward her family’s home as poetic justice.
But historically, sculptor Clark Mills designed it to depict Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans, acknowledging his troops’ salute—nothing to do with that anecdote. Still, it’s a great story people love to share!
Now, speaking of powerful turning points… this is the grave of Adoniram Judson, one of the greatest missionaries in Christian history.
Adoniram Judson was born in 1788 into a pastor’s home in Malden, Massachusetts. At just 16 years old, he entered what was then the College of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations (now Brown University) to study for the ministry. Back then, education worked by mastery levels—you advanced as soon as you completed each stage, like catechism and core subjects—not by age-based grades like our modern Franco-Russian model where everyone progresses together regardless of readiness. Judson was a brilliant student and graduated as valedictorian in 1807 at age 19.
While at Brown, he befriended a classmate named Jacob Eames, a convinced deist and skeptic who mocked Christianity. Eames influenced Judson to abandon his childhood faith, turning him into an infidel. After graduation, Judson didn’t tell his parents about his change of heart. Instead, he headed to New York City with dreams of becoming a famous playwright.
Just before leaving, he stopped home and had a big confrontation with his father: “I’m an infidel now. Jacob Eames showed me Christianity is foolish and childish.” They argued fiercely. The next day, Judson mounted his horse and rode toward New York.
Along the way, with no Holiday Inns back then, he stopped at a roadside inn for the night. The innkeeper said, “I have a room, but I’m hesitant—the man next door is dying, and it might disturb you.” Judson replied, “I’ll take it anyway.”
All night long, he heard shuffling feet, doctors coming and going, and the dying man screaming in agony, begging for forgiveness and crying out for his soul. Judson couldn’t sleep. He thought, “What would Jacob Eames say if he saw me worried about this? He’d call me a fool—there’s no soul, no afterlife, nothing to fear.” But the cries haunted him.
In the morning, the room next door fell silent. When Judson settled his bill, he asked the innkeeper, “Did he…?” The innkeeper confirmed, “Yes, he passed in the night.” Judson asked, “Do you know his name?” The reply: “Yes—a young man from Brown College. His name was Eames. Jacob Eames.”
Judson was stunned. His closest friend—the one who’d led him into unbelief—was dead, and by all accounts, died in terror without peace. The finality hit hard: “Lost! Utterly, irrevocably lost!” All his deistic ideas crumbled. God used that “coincidence” to pursue him relentlessly.
Judson turned around, went home, reconciled with his parents, got right with God, and soon felt called to missions. He trained at Andover Theological Seminary, married Ann Hasseltine, and in 1812 became one of America’s first foreign missionaries—sailing to India and then Burma, where he spent decades translating the Bible into Burmese, planting churches, and enduring imprisonment and hardship.
This happened around 1808, early in the 19th century. God’s story is full of these simple, providential moments that change everything. He can use the smallest “coincidence” to bring us back to Himself.