Shall We Gather at the River

 February 27, 2018, is a day I will never forget.  It was my birthday, but that is not why it is memorable.  That was the day I baptized Joyce in the Jordan River.  Robin Team took a picture that has preserved a defining moment in our life. 

 

 

 

I have been to the Holy Land seven times.  I am ashamed to say that on our first trip in 1996, I would not baptize anyone.  I did not give them the option of being baptized in the Jordan River.  I did not believe that a person should be baptized a second time.  I look back now and say, “What was I thinking?”

 

Before our second trip to Israel, Gary Wikstrom told me that he wanted to be baptized in the Jordan River.  I remember us walking down a rather old boat ramp into the river.  I forgot to bring flip-flops and Dr. Bob Team loaned me his.  I asked Bob how old they were.  They looked like he had them in medical school.  The combination of the slick boat ramp and old flip-flops made for an almost comical descent into the Jordan.  I managed to baptize Gary, but then slipped and he caught me, almost baptizing me!  But in spite of our antics, I realized what a powerful experience a baptism in the Jordan River could be.   

 

My son, Ray Nance, went on one of our trips to Israel. I baptized him and then he swam out into the water.  The Jordan River was so compelling that he wanted to savor the moment.  He did not want to get out.  

 

In subsequent trips, almost everyone wanted to be baptized.  It became a spiritual highlight of our pilgrimage.  

 

Joyce told me before our 2018 pilgrimage that she wanted to be baptized in the Jordan River.  She packed her bathing suit so that she would be prepared.  But the morning of the scheduled baptism, we woke up to heavy rain.  

 

At breakfast, everyone was asking me if we planned to go ahead with the baptism.  I really did not know.  The rain continued to fall.  We boarded the bus at the hotel, not knowing if there would be a baptism or not. 

 

But as we were pulling away from downtown Tiberias, the rain stopped.  Before we got to the Jordan River, the clouds parted and the sun appeared.  God was shining on our plans.  Yes, there would be a baptism in the Jordan River.  

 

Remarkably, everyone on the bus planned to be baptized, with one exception.  Robin Team had been baptized on the previous trip to Israel.  He announced that he would be the photographer.  

 

We gathered beside the river, everyone dressed in their white robes.  Someone read the Scripture and I made a few comments.  Then we all sang, “Shall We Gather at the River.”

 

The Jordan was cold that day.  It took your breath away when you stepped into the water.  But no one backed out.  One by one, everyone was baptized.  Only Joyce remained.  

 

Joyce had been baptized as a child at her home church, the Pollocksville Baptist Church where I later served as pastor.  She vaguely remembered being baptized by Rev. Hill.  But this was so different. 

 

Joyce was determined to be baptized in the Jordan.  I could tell that this was something she felt that she needed to do.  Neither she nor I would understand at the time why it was so important, but I do now.  

 

When I baptize someone, I will call their name and say, “I now baptize you my brother . . . or my sister in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”  

 

But this was my wife.  

 

You can see in the picture the moment just before the baptism.  The way Joyce looked at me was so powerful and meaningful.  You can see the love, you can feel the trust. Suddenly, I was overcome with emotion.  I could barely say the words.  I whispered, “I now baptize you, my wife, . . . “ 

 

When Jesus was baptized in the Jordan, the heavens parted and the dove descended and a heavenly voice proclaimed, “This is my beloved son.”  Jesus was being empowered and blessed for the journey before him, a journey that would lead to a cross.  

 

I look back on that powerful moment in the Jordan and realize that Joyce and I both were being empowered and blessed by our Heavenly Father as we were about to embark on the most difficult and painful journey of our lives.  The beginnings of dementia were already at work inside of Joyce, and we were about to begin a journey that would result in Joyce’s debilitating illness and death.  

 

I didn’t recognize Joyce’s dementia at first.  Maybe I didn’t want to.  I look back now and see things that were out of character.  The dementia was slowly invading her mind, preparing to take her away from me.  

 

The doctor first diagnosed her with Mild Cognitive Impairment.  But by the next visit, the doctor officially told us that Joyce had dementia.  

 

We tried to keep things as normal as possible in the beginning.  You could talk to Joyce and not realize that anything was wrong. But slowly, our world was changing.

 

There was one constant in Joyce’s life.  It was our church.  Joyce loved to go to church.  She loved to worship.  She loved the people.  She loved to sing the hymns of our faith.  For a long time, the first question she would ask me in the morning was, “Are we going to church today?”

 

If we would go to the church during the week, Joyce was confused.  She wanted to know where the choir was.   Why aren’t people here?  Don’t they want to go to church?

 

As Joyce’s dementia progressed, I would place a marker in her Bible so she could find the Scripture.  I would mark the hymns in her hymnal so she could find the hymns.  She would insist that she have a dollar, not five dollars, not twenty dollars, but one dollar to put in the offering plate.  

 

One Sunday I saw her holding a hymnal.  It was upside down.  Even though I marked the Scripture, she could no longer read her Bible.

 

One Sunday during a hymn, Joyce walked down front.  I came down from the pulpit area and asked her what was going on.  She looked at me and said, “Are you ready to go home?”  

 

I realized that her days of attending church were limited.   But there was one more Sunday that was important for her to attend.

 

One Sunday in September, I baptized my granddaughter, Ella Rae, and my daughter-in-law, Sang.  The choir sang, “Shall We Gather at the River.”  

 

Ray Nance sat with Joyce during the baptism.  When I came back into the sanctuary, I sat with Joyce because Ray Nance was going to deliver the sermon.  When I sat down beside Joyce, she looked at me and said, “Where have you been?  You missed the baptism.”  

 

She would only come to church one more time. We brought her to the Nine Lessons and Carols.  Two months later, Joyce passed away.

 

At her funeral service, our wonderful choir joined by others in the community filled the choir loft and sang, “Shall We Gather at the River,” as we walked into the sanctuary.  That was the song I wanted. It took me back to that February day eight years earlier, when we gathered at the Jordan River and Joyce was baptized.  

 

Soon we’ll reach the shining river,

Soon our pilgrimage will cease;

Soon our happy hearts will quiver

With the melody of peace.

 

Yes, we will gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river;

Gather with the saints at the river

That flows by the throne of God.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Angel

 It was Christmas 1957 in Danville, Virginia at the Ascension Lutheran Church.  The minister asked one of the good ladies of the church, Frances Spencer, to decorate a Christmas tree for the sanctuary.  But Frances had a problem.

 

She did not want to disappoint her minister, but she couldn’t see having a secular Christmas tree in her church sanctuary.  Christmas was a celebration of Christ’s birth, not a time to glorify Santa Claus, Frosty the Snowman, and Rudolf.  Suddenly, she had an idea . . . a brilliant idea!

 

Rather than placing traditional ornaments on the tree, she would make white and gold monograms that would represent Christ and Christianity.  She named these new ornaments, “Chrismons,” a cross of Christ and Monogram.  

 

This new practice spread quickly and soon many churches started to have a “Chrismon Tree.”  The First United Methodist Church of Lexington had the first Chrismon Tree in town under the leadership of Miheepa Jones.  When Al Martin arrived at First Baptist Church in 1974, he invited Miheepa to join several First Baptist members and they visited the Ascension Lutheran Church in Danville to learn about a Chrismon Tree.  Soon after the visit, First Baptist Church had their first Chrismon Tree.  

 

The original Chrismons, all handcrafted by church members, were showing their age by the early 2000s.  Several ladies, including Brenda Barton and my wife, Joyce, decided that it was time to create new Chrismons.  

 

Frances Spencer was now creating patterns for Chrismons, but was having a hard time finding the beads needed to make the ornaments.  In 1964, she connected with Harold and Barbara Rufty of Salisbury, North Carolina.  They were able to get beads through suppliers in New York and Japan.  Mrs. Spencer gave them permission to copyright the name “Chrismon” and Rufty’s Chrismon Shop was born.  This is where Joyce and several other ladies went to take Chrismon classes.  

 

Joyce could do most anything with her hands.  She sewed, cross-stitched, crocheted, quilted, and knitted.  She quickly fell in love with Crismons.  

 

Over the next few years Joyce and other ladies from our church took dozens of classes at Rufty’s in Salisbury.  She became good friends with women from all over the state who came for classes.  Gradually, the aging old Chrismons on our tree were replaced with over 200 beautiful new Chrismons.  Each Chrismon had a story and Joyce knew them all.  

 

In 2021, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had a local urologist, but when I found out that I had cancer, I decided to find a Wake Forest Baptist urologist in case I would need surgery.

 

Joyce had a wonderful urologist at Baptist, Dr. Catherine Matthews. Joyce had a procedure the previous year and Dr. Matthews gave me her cell phone number and told me to call her if I ever needed anything.  I called her and told her what was going on.

 

She immediately said, “I am going to refer you to my colleague, Dr. Ashok Hemal.”  Little did I know that I about to meet one of the most renowned robotic surgeons in the world.  

 

Dr. Hemal is from India.  He is a pioneer in robotic surgery.  In the 1980s, he was doing this innovative surgery in Paris.  He introduced robotic surgery to our country.  He is not only a gifted surgeon, but also a professor at the medical school.  

 

I quickly came to admire and respect Dr. Hemal.  He is one of the most humble men I have ever known.  Once when I thanked him for helping me with my cancer, he said, “I just use the gifts God has given me to the best of my ability.”  And what an amazing ability he has!  

 

We scheduled a radical robotic prostatectomy for August 16, 2021, at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem.  I knew that I would be in the hospital for at least two nights.  I told Joyce that I didn’t want her to stay overnight at the hospital with me.  “I will be fine,” I said.  “They will take good care of me.  I want you to go home so you can rest.”

 

Of course, Joyce didn’t listen to me.  She was with me from the minute we arrived for surgery until I was discharged two days later.  

 

When Dr. Hemal walked in to see us before the surgery, Joyce told him that she was praying for him and many others were also.  I could tell he was genuinely touched. 

 

I knew it would take several days to get the pathology report.  When Dr. Hemal called to give me the news, he said with a cheery voice, “Praise the Lord!  You are cancer free!”

 

During the time we were in the hospital and after we came home, Joyce was busy making a Chrismon.  I didn’t pay much attention at first, because Joyce was always making a Chrismon.  But as time went on, I could tell that she was making something very special.  

 

She created a beautiful angel.  She told me that Dr. Hemal was our angel and she wanted to give the angel to him.  When we had our follow-up visit, she did.  

 

He seemed very grateful.  I thought he would probably put the angel somewhere in his office, maybe even a closet.  But when we came for our next visit, Dr. Hemal told us about taking the angel home and how much his wife loved it.  He said, “We have the angel in a prominent place in our home.”  

 

From then on, every visit with Dr. Hemal started with a long expression of gratitude to Joyce for the gift of the angel.  

 

A few months ago, Dr. Hemal contacted me and asked if I would be willing to meet with someone from the philanthropy department.  In his typical humble way he said, “They are doing something for me.  I don’t know much about these things.”

 

I met with Linda Mays and Michelle Caldwell.  They explained that Wake Forest Baptist wanted to establish an endowed professorship in urology in honor of Dr. Hemal. The goal is to raise one million dollars. 

 

We decided to have a dinner in Dr. Hemal’s honor.  There were four cancer survivors, four Dr. Hemal alumni, four grateful men who are now cancer free because Dr. Hemal used his God-given gifts to heal us:  Robin Team, Burr Sullivan, Linwood Bunce and myself.  We were joined by Michelle Caldwell, Burr’s wife, Rebecca, Ed Crowder who is head of the Philanthropy Department, Dr. Soroush Rais-Bahrami, Chair of the Urology Department, and his wife Laura, and Dr. Ashok Hemal and his wife, Upma. 

 

It was a remarkable evening, one I will never forget.  Dr. Hemal wanted his picture made with the four of us and we were all able to express our profound gratitude to him.  

 

Robin Team opened the dinner with heartfelt remarks and a toast.  I followed with some remarks and a prayer.  I thanked Dr. Hemal for using his God-given gifts so that we could continue to use ours.  He deflected all of the praise by saying, “to God be the glory.”  

 

One of Dr. Hemal’s nurses told me that he never forgets a patient.  That is incredible considering the fact he has performed over 3,000 surgeries at Baptist. 

 

Dr. Hemal spoke about all four of us.  He remembered the dates of our surgery.  He could tell you the Gleason score assigned to us after our biopsy.  He shared something personal about each one of us.  

 

When Dr. Hemal walked in the door for the dinner, he told me that he had something to show me.  He opened his phone and showed me a picture of the angel Joyce had made for him.  His wife, Upma, shared how much the angel meant to both of them.

 

Dr. Hemal shared with the group that he remembered how Joyce was always with me.  She was there at the hospital, at each doctor’s appointment; always there to support me and to care for me. 

 

When we were leaving, Dr. Hemal hugged me and said, “You know how Joyce was always with you in the hospital.  She is still with you.  She will never leave you.” 

 

Joyce is now my angel.   

 

 

 

 

Do You Want to Dance?

 This is a sermon I attempted to preach on August 2.  I’m having voice issues, so I was not able to complete this sermon, but this is the way I intended it to be heard.

 

If you asked Joyce how she was doing anytime during the last six months of her life, she would respond by looking at me and saying, “Tell them how many years we have been married!”

 

She was proud of the fact that we were married over 47 years, especially considering the fact that so many people had said it would not last.  

 

This Friday, August 7, would have been our 48^th wedding anniversary.  It will be a difficult day.  But I’ve had many difficult days.  It has been almost 6 months now, 6 months since Joyce passed away.  

 

In his book, “Lament for a Son," Nicholas Wolterstorff, talks about the uniqueness of each death and the solitude of suffering.  We say to people, “I know how you are feeling,” but we don’t, even if we are walking down the same road.  

 

I want to talk about grief from the perspective of the Psalms.  There are three movements in the Psalms: “Orientation” “Disorientation” and “New Orientation.”  

 

Orientation is the way life is supposed to be.  A great example is the 8^th Psalm: “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is thy name in all the earth.  When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and stars which thou hast ordained”.  

 

For most of our life together, we lived in the orientation of life, the way life was supposed to be.  We had a very happy marriage, we served three loving churches, we have a great family, 4 children, 5 grandchildren, one great-grandchild. . . wonderful friends . . . life was good. 

 

But we know how quickly life can descend from orientation to disorientation.  Psalm 22 is a Psalm of Disorientation.  It opens with the words: “My God, My God why have you forsaken me.”  You recognize the words Jesus uttered on the cross.  

 

We suddenly find ourselves in the valley of darkness . .  sickness, tragedy, brokenness, suffering, disease, death 

 

But the Psalms also promise a new orientation .   “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  

 

23^rd Psalm contains all three movements:  Green Pastures, still waters, paths of righteousness . . . life the way it is supposed to be. But then it descends to the valley of the shadow of death . . . disorientation

 

But I want you to note the wording; yea though I walk through the valley . . the promise is that we will emerge from the valley one day into a new orientation . . . a table is prepared, my cup runneth over, goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.  The new orientation is a gift from God.  

 

One of the painful realities of grief is the realization that life will never be the same … new orientation is not a return to the life that we knew, it is a new way of life, one that we have never experienced before, a new reality that is akin to a resurrection.  

 

Six months after losing Joyce I have not arrived at the new orientation.  I often find myself in the darkness.  It takes a long time to walk through the valley—months, even years. But I am moving, ever so slowly, I am moving to the source of light knowing that new orientation cannot be planned or predicted. I don’t know when I will get there, but God will surprise me as he always does.

 

Joyce’s death now defines my life.  I have not gotten over her death, and in many ways I never will . . .  and that is okay, for Joyce is now my inspiration, my motivation.  She inspires me to live my life with renewed purpose and to honor her by serving God and serving others.

 

 As I continue my pilgrimage through the valley, here are a couple of observations.

 

I am lonely, but I am not alone.  My friend, Curtis Leonard who lost his wife to dementia said simply, “It is lonely.” If you go into a restaurant they will ask, how many? “One,” I will say.  “One, just one?” will be the reply.  When I walk into my house there is just one.

 

But while I am lonely, I am not alone, because I have the most wonderful church family and I live in a great community.  A lot of people don’t like small towns because they say everyone knows you and they know your business.   I have a whole town who knows me and they know my business, and they are supporting me and praying for me.  People I don’t even know will stop me at times and tell me that they are praying for me.

 

I cannot begin to tell you what my church family, has meant to me.  You have been there for me, you were there for Joyce, and you continue to be there for me. 

 

Life is a gift.  John Claypool, who lost his little 4 year-old daughter to leukemia, was finally able to come to terms with her death by realizing that her life, short as it was, was a gift.  He said, “I did not deserve her for a single, day, but I had the gift of her life for 4 years.”

 

I have been so blessed.  Joyce and I had 47 wonderful years together.  When you first enter the valley, you are consumed by the pain of what you have lost.  But as you begin to emerge from the valley, you can focus on the blessing of what you had.  I realize that not only was her life a gift, but my life is a gift from God and I want to use the time I have left to God’s glory

 

Since Joyce died I have been listening to Country Music.  Country Music speaks to the soul, it if full of stories of pain, brokenness and loss.  One day, shortly after Joyce died, I heard a Garth Brooks song, "The Dance."  It tore me out of my frame.

 

Joyce loved to dance.  One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I never learned how to dance.  Joyce tried her best, but she could never teach me to dance.  Once she enrolled me in a dance class without my knowledge!  I went, but it did not turn out well.

 

In the final months of her life, Joyce would often say, “Do you want to dance?”  She could be sitting in her chair, early in the morning, middle of the night . . . we went through a long period of her not sleeping much at all . . . but she wanted to dance.

 

At Abbotts Creek one day, (the rehab center) I was trying to get her to stand up, just so I could help her pivot and sit in her wheelchair, I finally said to her, “Do you want to dance?”  

 

She was able to stand, I held her close, but she could not dance, And I knew then, it was too late.  It would be soon be over.

 

Lookin' back on the memory of
The dance we shared beneath the stars above
For a moment all the world was right 
How could I have known that you'd ever say goodbye?

 

And now, I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could've missed the pain
But I'd had to miss the dance

 

I want to always keep Joyce’s memory alive.  In the Apocryphal book of Ecclesiasticus, there is a beautiful hymn titled, “In Honor of our Ancestors.”  One line reads, “Their bodies are buried in peace, but their name lives on generation after generation.”

 

Marty Stanbery, who serves as our organist and pianist, is also a gifted quilter. Marty made a beautiful quilt for me in memory of Joyce.  It has my initials and Joyce’s initials.  It has a couple of sayings from a sermon I preached shortly after Joyce’s death.  “Eyes blinded by tears cannot see the stars,” and “Love never dies.”  But it also has the picture of the baptism in the Jordan River from 2018 when I baptized Joyce.  I don’t know how Marty got the picture on the quilt, but it is a beautiful tribute to Joyce.

 

The quilt has found a permanent home on Joyce’s side of our bed.  I will keep it there to honor her and to keep her memory with me every night and day. And I know that Joyce will always be with me.   She will continue to inspire me to be the best person I can be.  And I am sure that when we do meet again on that heavenly shore, the first question she will ask me will be, “Do you want to dance?”                         

Do You Want to See the Launch?

 On February 20, 1962, one week before my eighth birthday, my daddy woke me up very early with the words, “Do you want to see the launch?”

 

He only had to say it once.  I immediately jumped out of bed and ran into the den where our Philco television was tuned to the local CBS station and Walter Cronkite was broadcasting from Cape Canaveral.  John Glenn was already in the capsule of Friendship 7, high atop the big Atlas rocket.  He was about to become the first American to orbit the earth.

 

I knew all about the space program.  I could name the Mercury Seven, the first American astronauts selected by NASA.  Scott Carpenter, Gordon Cooper, John Glenn, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton.  

 

At one time I wanted to be an astronaut, but I couldn’t ride a roller coaster without getting sick.  After I read about the rigorous training the astronauts went through, I thought I better choose a safer profession.   Maybe I could be a fireman.  

 

We lived 30 miles from Huntsville, Alabama, where the former German scientist, Wernher von Braun, had developed the Redstone Rocket that sent Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom on short sub-orbital flights.  

 

I had classmates whose fathers worked for von Braun and the space program in Huntsville.  Our next-door neighbor was von Braun’s personal secretary.  When they tested the Redstone rockets in Huntsville, we could hear the sound and feel the ground shake.  The space program was close and personal.

 

Daddy had told me that I would be able to see the launch before I went to school that morning, but some delays pushed the launch time back until almost 9 a.m. Central Time.  Daddy had to go to work, but Mother told me that I could be late going to school in order to see the launch.  Over half of my class was late that morning!

 

I went to school with the strange knowledge that a man was actually in outer space, orbiting over us around the earth.  When we went outside for recess, we all looked up into the sky, thinking we might even see him.  Little did we know that our hero was having unexpected problems in space.

 

During Glenn’s second orbit a faulty sensor indicated that the all-important heat shield was loose. After his third orbit he started the critical process of re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere.  If the heat shield failed, Glenn would not survive. (It is an urban legend that Glenn was initially scheduled for seven orbits.  The plan was always for 3 orbits)  

 

NASA kept the seriousness of the situation away from the public.  But Walter Cronkite and the other reporters had been educated on the risks of re-entry.  Even without a faulty heat shield, it was a dangerous endeavor. 

 

Mr. Gilbert, our jittery school principal, decided that we needed to witness this historic event.  He set up the school’s only television, a black and white model with rabbit ears, in the school auditorium.  Then all the kids were herded into the same auditorium my grandfather had known as a student, told to be quiet and watch the space ship come back to earth.  I wanted to tell Mr. Gilbert that it was a capsule, not a space ship, but thought better of it.

 

Twenty months later we would all be herded back into that same auditorium with the same television and the same Walter Cronkite to watch the tragic events coming out of Dallas, Texas on November 22, 1963.

 

John Glenn came safely back to earth and it was only later that we learned how close he came to perishing.  We all cheered when Walter Cronkite told us that John Glenn was safe aboard a Navy ship.  

 

I watched every Nasa mission in the Mercury and then the Gemini programs.  And then came the Apollo missions that were launched by the powerful Apollo Saturn V rockets designed by none other than Wernher von Braun.

 

Fifty-seven years ago, on July 20, 1969 I was watching as Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon with the words, “That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.”

 

But there was nothing like February 20, 1962.  When I visit the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, I always make my first stop the Friendship 7 capsule that carried John Glenn into space and after three orbits around the earth, safely back home.  When I look at that capsule I can hear my Daddy’s voice saying, “Do you want to see the launch?”

 

 

May There Be No Mourning of the Bar, When I Put Out To Sea

 “The sea is as near as we come to another world.”      

              (From “North Sea off Carnoustie” by Anne Stevenson)

 

Joyce loved the beach.  She grew up 30 miles from Emerald Isle.  She loved to Shag.  She would talk about gigging for flounder.  Sadly, she married a preacher who would choose the mountains over the beach, never learned to Shag and had never heard of gigging for flounder.  

 

When we lived in Pollocksville, we were very close to the beach.  Fresh seafood was just a short drive away.  We could go to the beach for a morning or an afternoon.  When we moved to Roxboro, Joyce missed the beach.  

 

Our physician and good friend, Dr. Thomas Long, had a condo at North Myrtle Beach.  He was always willing to rent the condo to us at a discounted price.  Every summer we would take the family to the beach condo on the second week of August.  We would have the car packed and leave as soon as church was over on Sunday.  We would return home the following Sunday.  Joyce loved our annual trip to the beach.  

 

When we moved to Lexington, we didn’t go to the beach very often.  The children were growing up and Joyce and I started to travel internationally.  I served on the Board of Directors for our Baptist camp in Belize and we would travel to Belize at least once a year for the annual board meeting.  We would always spend a couple of days on an island where we enjoyed the Palm Trees and white sand of the beautiful Caribbean Sea.   Even so, Joyce would say, “I miss the beach.” She was talking about her beach, Carolina beaches.  

 

We traveled to the beach several times in recent years.  We were invited to preach at the Emma Anderson Memorial Chapel at Topsail Beach for a couple of years.  The church invites a different minister each week and provides a beautiful, small beach cottage.  The first year we went, Joyce really enjoyed it.  We walked on the beach.  We enjoyed the seafood.  We took in gorgeous sunrises and sunsets.  

 

Dementia was starting to close in by the next year.  Joyce didn’t want to leave the cottage.  If I left to go walking, she would become very anxious.  She did not want to walk on the beach. That was when I realized her dementia was advancing quickly. 

 

In November of 2024, Jerry Beamer’s father died and Joyce and I drove to Mt. Airy for his funeral.  Jerry’s son, Colin, introduced us to his fiancé and told us that they were getting married the next summer on the Outer Banks.  Joyce quickly stated that we planned to attend.  This was Colin, one of our very special young people whom we had known his entire life, and secondly, it was going to be at the beach. 

 

We made the drive to Duck, North Carolina, in June for the wedding.  Joyce loved seeing so many of the young people that we had worked with at the church.  She danced with Jerry.  She delighted in all of the beautiful highlights of the wedding.  

 

The wedding was at the Sanderling Resort in Duck.  Following the ceremony, we witnessed one of those breathtaking sunsets over the sound.  It would be the last sunset Joyce would ever see at the beach.  

 

We left the next morning, never to return to the beach again.  

 

A few weeks ago, Ray Nance asked me if I wanted to go with him and his family to the beach.  They were going to the Outer Banks, to Frisco.  We left Monday morning.  It is a long drive, but six hours later we arrived at the rental house on the beach. 

 

Ray Nance, Sang, and Ella Rae went to the beach every morning.  They would spend several hours in the water and sand.  Then they returned to walk on the beach each night.

 

I did some walking on the streets, but mainly stayed at the house, catching up on some reading.  It was great to be with them.  We played Scrabble, Monopoly, and Life.  Ray Nance and Sang prepared the meals.  It was a very good week. 

 

I wanted to go to the beach at least once, so on Tuesday night I told them that I would go to the beach with them.  It was dark.  We had flashlights.  We climbed over the sand dune and I saw the powerful ocean pounding the beach in front of me.  

 

Once on the beach, I decided to wade out into the water.  As I did with the wind blowing and the waves pounding, I felt Joyce’s presence.  She had always told me there was something very special about the beach.  There was a power, a mystique that one cannot easily explain, but suddenly I got it.  I knew what Joyce was trying to tell me.  

 

I could feel her standing beside me, holding my hand, looking out into the majestic sea.  Then the tears started to flow.  Suddenly, I was alone and the pain of loneliness overcame me. 

 

I don’t know how long I was standing there, but I felt another presence.  My granddaughter, Ella Rae, walked over and stood beside me, placing her arm around me.  No words were spoken, no words were needed.  

 

Ray Nance asked me if I wanted to talk about it.  “No,” I said.  But then I added, “You know she loved the beach.”

 

Sunset and evening star,

      And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

      When I put out to sea,

 

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

      Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

      Turns again home.

 

   Twilight and evening bell,

      And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

      When I embark;

 

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

      The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

      When I have crost the bar.

 

                      (“Crossing the Bar” by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Joyce's Pecan Pie

 

Many years ago, way down south in LA (Lower Alabama), I acquired a deep appreciation for the delightful cultural practice of “Dinner on the Grounds.”

 

Now days, churches hold pristine “covered dish dinners” in an air-conditioned fellowship hall with store bought potato salad and KFC chicken.  But back in the day, Dinner on the Grounds was literally on the grounds and nothing was store bought.  Many churches had permanent outdoor tables and shelters—they were serious about Dinner on the Grounds. 

 

It seems that we only have our “covered dish dinners” once or twice a year for a church picnic or other special event.  Back in the day they didn’t need a special occasion to hold a Dinner on the Grounds, they held them frequently.  But when Revival time rolled around or the annual Homecoming, that was when Dinner on the Grounds escalated from “good” to “Glorious!”

 

It was enough just to attend these fine outdoor feasts.

Most of the funeral directors were invited to every church for such occasions, and they never missed.  But when you were the guest preacher; well, then you were treated like royalty.  

 

Every church has their legendary cooks and each one has a special dish that is mandatory for the visiting preacher to sample. Whether it be chicken and dumplings, deviled eggs, squash casserole, fried chicken, banana pudding, chocolate pie, pecan pie or pound cake, I quickly learned that all I needed to do was step back and the ladies would bring the food to me. 

 

You don’t see that as much anymore, but there are still a few legendary cooks who will bring their special dishes to the church picnic.  And one of those was my wife, Joyce, who would always bring a pecan pie to every church meal.  

 

Everyone knew about Joyce’s pecan pie.  A few years ago, when the youth were raising money for a mission trip, Joyce’s pecan pie sold for several hundred dollars.  She enjoyed telling that story.  

 

We were eating out in Greensboro one night.  The lady at the table next to ours was bragging about the fact that her cake brought $50 at her church auction.  Joyce couldn’t wait.  She interrupted them, looked at me and said, “Tell them how much my pecan pie brought at our church!”

 

The truth is that it was not Joyce’s pecan pie.  It was my Aunt Ruth’s, my mother’s older sister.  

 

Years ago, we traveled to Alabama for a family funeral. 

Aunt Ruth brought a pecan pie to the house.  When Joyce tasted the pie, she immediately asked Aunt Ruth for the recipe.  Aunt Ruth said that she did not give out her recipe.  

 

Joyce pleaded with her, telling her that she had never tasted a pecan pie so good.  Finally, Aunt Ruth relented.  She told Joyce that she would give her the recipe on one condition: that she never give the recipe to anyone else.  

 

Joyce agreed and she was true to her promise.  Through the years people have tried to get the recipe from Joyce, but she would never tell them.

“Aunt Ruth made me promise,” she would say.  I would sometimes remind Joyce that Aunt Ruth had been dead for years, but it did not matter.  A promise is a promise and Joyce always kept the promise.  

 

Aunt Ruth sat down at a table in my mother’s house with an 8 ½ by 11 sheet of white paper and wrote the recipe from memory.  Joyce kept the original manuscript in Aunt Ruth’s handwriting.  She placed it in a plastic cover and always used it when making a pie. You could tell Aunt Ruth never used a recipe for the pecan pie.  There were several ingredients that she was not sure how much she used.  She wrote “2 or 3 tablespoons.” “1 or 1 ½ cups”. 

 

One word that really dated my aunt was “Oleo.”  Joyce knew that Oleo meant butter.  Oleo was often used in older cookbooks.  It was a substitute for butter made from vegetable oil that was less expensive.  Oleo comes from the Latin word, oleum (oil).

 

Joyce had tweaked the recipe and added her own notes to clarify the inconsistencies, the largest one was the amount of time you baked the pie in a 350-degree oven.  Aunt Ruth put 35 to 50 minutes.  Joyce wrote 40 Mins.  But she always checked it after 40 minutes and then cooked it another 2 to 3 minutes. 

 

Anyone who knew Joyce quickly learned that if you asked for a piece of pi-KAHN pie, she would correct you and make you ask for PEE-can pie.  The irony was that for Aunt Ruth and my mother, it was always pi-KAHN pie.

 

It did not take long for Joyce’s pecan pie to reach the legendary status of Minnie Banks’ chocolate pie.  People would go to the dessert table first, to make sure they would get a piece of the rare delicacies.  

 

As time went on, Joyce would bring her pie and place it on the dessert table.  Then she would make her rounds to make sure certain people knew to go get a piece of the pie right now . . . they did . . . and the pie would be gone before the blessing. 

 

But then Joyce started to do something that concerned me. She would bring her pecan pie to the church and hide it in the kitchen.  Then she would tell certain people to meet her in the kitchen for a piece of the pie.  

 

I told Joyce that she could not do that.  “Everyone should have an equal chance to get a piece of the pie,” I said.  But she didn’t pay any attention to me.  It was not until later that I realized what was going on.  

 

Part of dementia is paranoia.  Joyce was afraid that something would happen to her pie, so she hid it in the kitchen.  Her pecan pie was special.  She wanted to protect it.  It makes perfect sense now.

 

In her later years, Joyce started having trouble making the pie.  One time she didn’t add salt.  Another time she left out the vanilla.  I started being in the kitchen with her, holding Aunt Ruth’s original recipe, to make sure all of the ingredients were added.  

 

Gradually, she depended on me more and more; to measure the syrup, to beat the eggs, to add the sugar and flour. Soon, I was making the pie while Joyce watched with a blank stare.  

 

We have a church picnic, “a covered dish,” the last Sunday of July.  I plan to make one of Joyce’s pecan pies.  I will carefully follow Aunt Ruth’s handwritten recipe, along with Joyce’s edits.  I will use butter, not Oleo.  I will bake it for 42 minutes.  I promise not to hide it in the kitchen.  But I will insist on one thing, that you pronounce it correctly---PEE-can, not pi-KAHN.  Joyce never made a pi-KAHN pie.