We need not speculate about the faith of Captain W.J. Gilbreth–or lack thereof. He made sure that generations yet unborn would know that he was an avowed atheist by having a special plate inscribed and placed on his tombstone in Lawrenceburg’s Mimosa Cemetery.

Concerning his view of religion, the plate says that Gilbreth “made his life the best he could. No fear of gods, no love of Jesus, no thought of future punishment or reward controlled his acts. His mind was free from religious or other superstition. His sense of right and justice was the law he obeyed.”

As it was told to me long ago, the story of how Captain Gilbreth came to lose his religion in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee–where a church stands on every corner–is a tragic tale of personal loss.

Captain Gilbreth was one of the many Lawrence County men who rushed to the colors when the Spanish-American War broke out in 1898. He was deployed to the Philippines with his regiment, leaving behind two young children and a pregnant wife. As the story goes, Gilbreth prayed incessantly for his wife and unborn child while he was at war. Tragically, however, his wife lost the child, and when he found out about it, Gilbreth lost his faith.

He survived the war, came home, and although he and his wife went on to have one more child, Gilbreth permanently turned his back on God and all forms of religious belief.

As an open and avowed atheist, Gilbreth certainly must have stuck out in a small town like Lawrenceburg in those day. Regardless, he filled his life with civic activity and community-mindedness. Local newspapers from the turn of the 20th century show that he attended and helped organize almost every important community function, was an active proponent of the creation and advancement of Lawrence County High School, and served in several community leadership positions.

When he died in 1934, a large stone was placed at his grave, with that bold pronouncement of his disdain for religion at the center, and two black-and-white photos on each side–one of him, and one of his wife, who would outlive him by more than twenty years.

But it’s what supposedly happened to that stone that most people remember about Gilbreth.

As legend has it, not long after Gilbreth was buried, the skies turned dark and thunder began rumbling ferociously. But the storm that day supposedly produced only one bolt of lightning, which is said to have struck Gilbreth’s tombstone with a mighty fury, forever scarring and marring his photograph.

Whether the story of the lightning bolt striking the tombstone is true or whether the damage to Gilbreth’s photo is the result of vandalism, generations of the faithful have pointed to the legend as evidence that Gilbreth had angered God for openly flaunting Him.

Whether or not the legend is true, Gilbreth’s tombstone is certainly an anomaly in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. In a sea of stones which commemorate the faithfulness of the deceased, Gilbreth’s stone stands out for its open dismissal of faith and religious belief.

Regardless of whether you agree with his conclusions or not, no one can deny that Gilbreth’s stone–and the legend that accompanies it–is certainly unique.