The Greatest Generation

 

A few years ago, Joyce and I decided to go on a Mississippi River Cruise.  We had been on several European River Cruises and loved every minute.  Why not do the Mississippi?

We signed up with Viking for a cruise that was scheduled for October of 2026.  We would depart from New Orleans and cruise to Memphis.  Joyce loved Elvis and was excited about going to Graceland.

 

We knew that our son, Ray Nance, and his wife, Sang, loved New Orleans.  They had joined us at Pinocchio’s, our favorite Italian Restaurant, to celebrate Joyce’s birthday.  We were talking about the cruise and said, “Why don’t you come to New Orleans with us?”  We can spend a couple of days together, then we will get on the boat and you can fly back home.”  

 

As time passed, Joyce’s condition was deteriorating. I knew our traveling days were over, so I canceled the trip.  

 

After Joyce’s death, I thought about our great plans that never happened.  But I thought, we can still go to New Orleans.  

 

We were scheduled to fly to New Orleans on Friday, October 9.  Everything was good to go, but there was a last-minute complication.  The only hurricane of the 2026 season was churning in the Gulf and it could possibly hit New Orleans.  Three days before our trip, the weather was showing heavy rain and wind every day.  

 

I didn’t know until I woke up that Friday morning if our flight was cancelled or not.  But the storm was headed east of New Orleans and we departed from Charlotte on-time. 

 

Except for some light wind on Friday, we experienced three days of perfect weather.  I think Joyce was looking out for us!

 

I was looking forward to visiting the Crescent City.  The one thing I really wanted to see was the World War II Museum.  Ray Nance and Sang had been there several years ago and told me that I needed to see it.  

 

During the Second World War, the Higgins Boats were manufactured in New Orleans.  These were the boats made famous in the D-Day landings at Normandy.  There were seven different facilities across New Orleans that built the boats during the war.  This is why the museum is in New Orleans.  It started as a D-Day Museum, then expanded to include the entire war. 

 

It is a massive museum.  You could easily spend several days exploring all of the exhibits and artifacts.  It is Smithsonian quality—exceptionally well done.  

 

On the way to the museum, I was telling Ella Rae, my granddaughter, that her great-grandfather (Joyce’s father) fought in the Second World War.  She also had a great uncle, (my aunt’s husband) who was killed in the Battle of Saipan.  

 

I wanted to give her as much information as possible on the war.  The causes, the history, the major battles . . . she is always eager to learn and I became her personal tour guide.  I have read much on the war and feel that I have more than an average knowledge.  

 

As we started through the European Theater section of the museum, I was explaining it all to her.  (Too loudly, Ray Nance said). But I wasn’t prepared for what would happen next. 

 

When we came to the area devoted to the aerial bombing campaign over Germany, I told her the story of Dozier “Bush” Linder.  Ray Nance and Sang live in the house where the Linders lived on West Fourth Avenue.  

 

Bush was involved in many air bombing missions over Germany.  Toward the end of the war, his plane went down and he was captured.  His wife, Helen, only knew that his plane had been shot down.  He was released from POW camp when the war ended and he made his way home.  It was not until he arrived in Lexington that Helen knew he had survived.  

 

We took a large group to Germany to see the Passion Play in the year 2000.  Bush and Helen went with us.  Bush told me that this was the first time since the war that he had returned to Germany. 

 

One night, the Linders did not come to dinner.  I thought they were tired or just decided not to eat that evening.  But the next morning Helen told me what happened.  

 

Bush had a breakdown when they got back to their room.  He talked about how beautiful Germany is and how lovely the people are.  He had only seen Germany from 10,000 feet and he was dropping bombs on them.  It all came to a head that night . . . he cried like a baby.  

 

There was an area devoted to the Holocaust.  I have been to the Holocaust museums in Jerusalem and Washington, DC.  I knew this would not be easy.  But I suddenly remembered Joe Miller.  If I mentioned the Holocaust in a sermon, Joe would have tears running down his face.  He would look at me and say, “People just don’t know, they just don’t know.”

 

Joe had been in one of the first divisions to liberate a Concentration Camp.  He saw the horror first-hand.  He could never forget.  Decades later, the mere mention of the Holocaust would reduce him to tears.

 

They had a well-documented section on the Battle of Bulge.  I immediately thought about Wade Johnson.  Wade was always a man on a mission. I knew that Wade had been a POW in the war, but he never talked about it.  The only thing he ever said to me was, “When I die, don’t use the 23^rd Psalm.  I want the 91^st Psalm.”

 

Wade died suddenly in October of 2008.  When I went with the family to the funeral home, Vernon Lloyd handed me a folder.  “We thought Wade had made pre-arrangements,” he said.  “But this is what he brought to the funeral home a number of years ago.”

 

On the folder he had written, “Give this to my minister when I die.”

 

Inside was a detailed, hand-written account of Wade’s experience as a POW.  He started by telling that his mother gave him a Bible when he went to war and told him to read the 91^st Psalm every day.  Wade said that he did not do that until they got to Germany and started fighting.  That is when he started reading the 91^st Psalm . . . every day.  

 

He wrote about being captured during the Battle of the Bulge and shot in the back by the Germans with a submachine gun.  Somehow, he survived.  A German medic took pity on him and gave him some chocolate.  The next day he was rescued by the Allies.  

 

It took Wade months to recover from his injuries, but he now had a purpose in life.  He lived his life on a mission from God, never talking about his experience in the war.  But he decided that when he died, he wanted his minister to tell his story.  At the end of his personal account, he wrote, “Tell this story at my funeral and read the 91^st Psalm.”  

 

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High,
    who abides in the shadow of the Almighty,
       will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress;
              my God, in whom I trust.”
For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
    and from the deadly pestilence;
       he will cover you with his pinions,
              and under his wings you will find refuge;
                      his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
       nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
              nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.

A thousand may fall at your side,
    ten thousand at your right hand;
       but it will not come near you.

 

I knew why he wanted me to read the 91^st Psalm at his funeral.

 

The Psalm ends with the words, “With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.”

 

That explained why Wade was always a man on a mission from God.

 

As I was telling Ella Rae about these men and their stories, I was overcome with emotion.  The dates, the timeline, the battles, the strategies, did not matter anymore.  I realized how deeply this war had changed their lives, and mine.  

 

They truly were “The Greatest Generation.”  

 

I Cannot Be Silent

 I was called to preach when I was only 16.  For 56 years, I have proclaimed the Gospel through preaching and teaching.  I had always felt that God blessed me with a good voice.  But back in the summer, I developed a problem.  

I noticed it one Sunday when I was preaching.  I was having trouble pronouncing some of my words.  Words that started with an “S” really gave me a problem.  I did not know what was going on.  

One night when I was eating, I could not form any words.  I was getting very concerned. Sunday was coming and I was fearful the problem would get worse.  It did.

I called Wes, our Minister of Music, and asked him if he would be prepared to lead a hymn if I had to stop preaching.  I remember him asking, “Do you really think you will not be able to preach?”  

“I don’t know,” I responded.  “I guess we will find out.”  

I could tell as soon as I started my sermon that Sunday that I would not get through it.  My words were slurred and garbled.  I’ve had people tell me later that they thought I was having a stroke.  I asked Wes to come and lead a hymn and I walked out of the sanctuary.  I got some water and when I came back I tried to continue preaching, but it wasn’t working.  I had crashed and burned.  

I went to see my dentist and she immediately said, “I think it is your CPAP machine.”  I’ve been using a CPAP for over 13 years.  Maybe she was right.

Then I decided to go see my ENT doctor.  She said, "We need to have you tested for Sjogren’s disease."  When the test came back negative, she said, “Maybe it is your CPAP machine.”  

My CPAP doctor was no longer with Atrium Health, so my ENT referred me to a new doctor.  It would be almost two months before I could get an appointment.  

I had not told my daughter about my problem.  I was assuming it was just dry mouth and I would get over it.  But she was watching our service.  She called me and said, “Dad, this could be serious.”

The next morning, I was in the Emergency Department.  I was being tested for a possible stroke or a brain tumor.  The Emergency Room doctor told me to follow up with my regular doctor.  The first thing she said was, “This could be your thyroid.  We need to have you tested.”

There was another possibility for which there was no test.  Maybe this was a symptom of my grief.  Grief can create physical issues . . . maybe I was just grieving.  

Sundays were not getting any better.  Chad Killebrew told me that if I ran into a problem, he would be glad to read my manuscript.  One Sunday I knew that I could not continue, so I invited Chad to take over.  

I did not tell anyone, but I was scared. My condition was not getting any better and there were no answers.  Whatever was causing it, I knew that I would not be able to continue preaching.  I started thinking about how I would step down.  It was not fair to the church to have a preacher without a voice.

In the last week of August, I traveled to the beach to spend some time with my oldest daughter, Lynn, and her family.  My oldest grandson, Benjamin, is an Infectious Disease Doctor in Spartanburg, South Carolina.  He was there with his wife and daughter.  

When we were leaving to come home, Benjamin told me that he thought I had a condition known as Myasthenia Gravis, a long-term autoimmune disease.  The immune system attacks the connection between the nerves and the muscles.  

 

This disease plays out in many different ways and can be very severe.  In my case, it is attacking my Bulbar muscles that control speaking.  Myasthenia Gravis is not curable, but it is treatable. 

He sent a note to my doctor asking that I be tested.  I was and that is exactly what I have.  My doctor immediately put me on medication that appears to be working.  

I had one more hurdle to clear.  Myasthenia Gravis can be caused by a tumor known as a thymoma.  I made one more trip to the hospital for a CT scan to rule out a tumor.  Almost before I got home my doctor had messaged me to share the good news—all was clear.  

The next day I had a visit with my doctor to see how the medicine was working.  The visit turned into something much more profound.

Dr. Alimena told me that there were two things she wanted to share with me.

She said, “I want you to understand how rare it is to be diagnosed in a clinical setting.  Many times, a patient is on a ventilator in ICU before we find out it is Myasthenia Gravis.” If Benjamin had not sent my doctor the note asking her to test me for this disease, I probably would still not know. 

The bloodwork for Myasthenia Gravis is very extensive. My blood was sent all over the country.  All of the tests came back positive except one.  The last test to return from a lab in California was negative.

 “This tells me,” my doctor said, “that the possibility of this progressing to other muscles is very unlikely.”  

Some people might say I was lucky.  Some would say fortunate.  But I realized that this was more than luck or chance—I was blessed. As my ENT doctor said, “It was meant to be.”

As a tremendous burden lifted off of my shoulders, I realized that God still has work for me to do. He is not finished with me yet.  

On one of the first Sundays when I could not continue my sermon, I recalled a story that I had told in one of my first Easter sermons, almost 50 years ago.  

A minister had lost his voice due to some type of throat disease.  He could no longer speak.  On Easter Sunday he wrote on a pad, “How tragic to awake on Easter Sunday without a voice to shout, Alleluia!  Christ is Risen!”

I remember thinking how terrible it would be for a preacher not to have a voice.  Now, it was happening to me.  The story kept coming back, it was haunting me.

But that is not all he wrote.  He added, “How much more tragic to have a voice and remain silent.”

Through the grace of God, the love and prayers of many people, and the wisdom of my grandson, I still have a voice.

I cannot be silent.