All Was Others: All Will Be Others

In my hometown of Dudley, Massachusetts, there’s an old mill from 1859, its walls slowly giving way to time. On one of its granite window stones, a curious phrase was carved: “All Was Others: All Will Be Others.” It’s now our town motto as well. At first, it puzzled me—maybe it should read “All Were Others”? But the more I reflect upon it, the more I see its quiet truth. It’s said to have roots in Scotland, carried across the sea, etched here to whisper through the years… a warning of sorts.

It speaks of life’s unending rhythm. What you live today, others lived before you. What you leave behind, others will carry forward. Generations bloom and wither, their stories blending into the earth. Most of us, in two hundred years, will be shadows—our names unspoken, our faces lost to time. Yet something remains: the fruits or poisons of our actions. The paths we walked, the choices we made, the burdens or blessings we passed along—they linger, silent but real.

Someone once told me—his name escapes me now—that each generation is like a school team. You don’t pick your players or your position; you’re thrown into the chaos and told to play together. That stuck with me. Whenever I pass that mill, its inscription staring out, it stirs again: “All Will Be Others”. It’s a mirror to time, asking us to see ourselves in what came before and what’s yet to come. How’s our team doing?

Think of life as a nine-inning baseball game, each decade a mere inning of your generation’s turn. The team’s already been chosen. We are all on the same team. You don’t start at the first pitch—you step in mid-play, bases already set, game already in motion. Others set the field before you arrived, and when your innings end, others will take the field, picking up where you left off. Some have been in the game longer, their hands steady from years at bat. Others are just starting, finding their footing. Some play with their whole heart, giving everything to the moment. Others watch from the stands, more drawn to the sidelines than the play. Some even abandon the team and throw popcorn at you instead. When the team pulls together, it moves forward. When it drifts apart, it falters.

All the while, time flows on, steady and unyielding. Within it, we each have our inning—our own chance to step up. And the question arises: What do we do with it? Do we swing with purpose, knowing our actions shape the game for those who follow? Or do we sit back, thinking our part too small to matter? Or do we simply not care? Some try to profit from the game. Some try to rig the game. Some will just quit. How are you playing the game?

It matters more than we realize. The freedoms we hold, someone else fought to give us. The roads we travel, someone else laid down. The struggles we face, someone else left behind or failed to mend. Our lives are built on their echoes, just as “others” will be built on ours. We’re not here alone—we’re part of something larger, a thread in a tapestry we’ll never fully see… or quite possibly comprehend.

The mill in Dudley fades with each season, its stones weathered but enduring. Like many of our own bodies. That inscription, “All Was Others… All Will Be Others“, still speaks. It reminds us: the past was theirs; the future will be theirs too. We stand in between, holding the bat for this moment. What will our remnants say? Will those who come after… find traces of wisdom, of care? Or will they pause, as we sometimes do, and wonder what we could have done differently? Will they question our thinking… curse our failure or celebrate our success?

And what is the goal of this nine-inning game? In baseball, it’s to win—but not just for the score. It’s in how you play: with others, for others. A single hit can shine, but it’s the team that carries the day. One player’s effort lifts the next, inning by inning, until the game is complete. The purpose of this game we play right now… is to simply… play the game. It’s a try out for the next game. But to truly play in the game… you need to use the talents the Great God Almighty bestowed upon you.

So, it is with life. We’re not here to stand apart. We’re here to play together—to give what we have, to lift those beside us, to leave the field stronger for those who follow. That’s the quiet purpose of it all: not to be remembered forever. In some sense, it’s a tryout for what lies beyond. Each swing, each catch, each choice to play with heart… prepares us for a greater field.

One day, our innings here will end, and we’ll stand before the throne of God, where time stands still and his glory shines. There, the true measure of our performance comes—not in runs, but in faithfulness. Did we play for ourselves alone, or for the team, or for the One who set the game in motion? If we gave our all, we’ll hear His voice: “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” Not an end, but a new beginning—an invitation to step onto an eternal field… where the game never fades.

The mill’s walls may crumble, but its words stand fast: All Was Others. All Will Be Others. A call across the ages—to play this game with heart, to weave our innings with threads of kindness, of brotherhood and faith. Our time here is brief, a whisper in eternity, yet every step we take together ripples forward.

Let us leave behind a field, not of shadows, but of warmth—where those who follow can trace the love we lived, hear the laughter we shared and continue the game, we ourselves once played many centuries before… as others!