It was October 1850, according to a story I recently read. Gold was discovered in the district of Grass Valley, California. Over the next 91 years, at least one million dollars in gold was produced annually from the mines in the area. (Wouldn’t it be great if the environmentalist would allow us to return to yesterday – but I guess that is a political opinion!)
The story read that Michael Brennan, a 36-year-old journalist with the New York Herald, heard about the mining claims at a place called Massachusetts Hill, overlooking Grass Valley. He had no experience in mining, but a group of Irish New York investors bought the mine and chose Brennan to supervise it.
Michael and his beautiful wife, Dorinda, along with their three children sailed from New York. They crossed over the Panama Isthmus (before the Panama Canal was built) and then again boarded a ship until they reached northern California.
Together Michael and Dorinda built a large comfortable home atop Massachusetts Hill, fully expecting that gold-bearing quartz would flow out from his mine below. Their family made the transition well and joy filled their home.
Within a few months a sizeable dividend was declared for the investors. Convinced that an even richer vein of gold lay further along the shaft, Brennan had his men attack the mine with all the equipment and vigor they could bring to bear. Every dollar he could raise went into the mining operation, but all the efforts produced nothing more.
Deeper and deeper these men dug the shaft, looking for the precious gold-bearing quartz. But the gold had vanished. Michael was advised by others to give up the quest, but he soldiered on. While his company could no longer finance his work, he spent his own money and used up every cent. Finally, no creditor would back him, and he had to lay off all his men.
Michael continued on, digging by himself. His health and that of his family began to decline. After two years, Michael realized his Massachusetts Hill had become Heartbreak Hill. One of his friends, Ole Charley, found him one morning slumped down at the entrance to his mine. “Charley,” Michael said, “my dream is over. This mine has beaten me!”
The next Sunday, the Brennan family missed the services at the Community Church in Grass Valley. Alarmed at the silence around the home and the fact that they never missed church for any reason except extreme illness, the neighbors went to check. They broke into the house and found the whole family dead, evidently of poison. Dorinda and the children were sitting up in their beds. Michael was sitting almost upright in his easy chair in the parlor, as if he had just fallen asleep. The family was buried nearby in the city cemetery on a small rise just across from Massachusetts Hill.
New owners purchased the mine which at one time was priceless, but now was almost worthless. But, at the very spot where Michael had put in his last day of digging, the new owners set off a blast that uncovered the rich ledge of gold Brennan had sought. One day more and his dream would have come true! He quit too soon! If only he had tried again!
As I read this story, I could not help but remember several couples that quit on each other and wondered, “What might have happened had they tried one more time?” I think about the parents of wayward children that have finally had all they believed they could take, and thrown the child away, and wondered, “What might have happened had they attempted to get through to the child just one more time; maybe even going to joint counseling!” I think about the projects that I have started with great zeal, only to find them having more “dead-end streets” than I imagined and wondered, “What if I had realized my successes – I, like Thomas Edison, now know another way that it wouldn’t work – and worked on it again?”
I remember a young lady who came from another state to Port O’Connor, following her dream. When that did not work out very well, she found herself at the Chapel. After hearing a message, she responded to the call for change and left the altar with a different countenance. Later she told the church, “Where I used to live, I had to travel right by a sign every time I went home which said, ‘Dead End’. When I came to Port O’Connor, I saw the sign at the entrance of the town which read, ‘End of the Road’! Now, tonight, I realize that by giving my life to Jesus Christ, I never have to again feel that I have to fight just to stay alive! I now have purpose and direction that will eventually get me to the Streets of Gold.”
I sincerely believe that Port O’Connor is at the beginning of all roads, not the end of any road! I believe that a life given to Jesus Christ is a life that begins anew, with greater opportunities and a future that is promised to be with our Creator! I believe that no matter how great the challenge, if we will try one more time, we might get different results. I believe a local dad has it right when he told his son, “Never say we lost; just remember, you came in second place! Losers are those who quit!”
