The Place that Beckons Me and Binds Me Like No Other

 What is it about this place that calls me back?  It beckons me, it binds me like no other. 

 

Joyce and I were blessed to travel to many places in the world and meet many wonderful people.  But of all the places we traveled, the one that holds the dearest place in our hearts is the farmhouse in Italy.  

 

I received the coveted Lilly Endowment Sabbatical Grant in 2010.  They encouraged me to travel and to find a place of sabbath rest.  I set out on a quest to find the perfect Tuscan Farmhouse where we could rest, reflect, and find renewal for our souls.  

 

I spent many hours researching our options and reading travelers’ reviews. I kept coming back to a farmhouse outside of San Gimignano named La Torraccia di Chiusi.  All of the reviews were consistent in their glowing praise.  In fact, there was not one single negative review, not a negative word.  We went to this wonderful farmhouse wondering if it could possibly live up to our lofty expectations—we did not need to worry, it exceeded them.   

 

Life at the farmhouse has a comforting cadence, a pleasant predictability, and a soothing similarity each day.   Early in the morning the woodcutter arises and splits wood before filling his wheelbarrow and making his rounds to the different fireplaces and wood stoves.  He is a simple and humble man who moves slowly but faithfully.  The rooms are heated by steam, powered by a wood stove that he replenishes throughout the day.  Bruno also cooks his Etruscan bread in a wood stove.  We speak to the woodcutter each morning saying, “Buongiorno!”

 

He smiles, says “Buongiorno” and goes about his methodical task.  

 

Maritza arrives early to prepare breakfast each morning.  There is typical Italian meat, cheese, bruschetta, breads, homemade organic jams, fruit, cereal, yogurt, juices and coffee.  In addition, Maritza always scrambles a few eggs and bakes a cake.  The freshly baked cake, we had lemon, apple, and chocolate, was always warm, right out of the oven.  

       

The men who work on the farm are in and out of the kitchen as they prepare for their day.  Maria comes in by 8:30 each morning and we hear the warm shouts of Buongiorno! as others welcome her.  Stefano and Donatella will often drop in as well.  It is evident that these are not just co-workers, this is a special, close knit family.  Bruno will come in the afternoon to prepare for the evening meal.  

       

When we arrive at breakfast we are always welcomed by Maritza.  She is so happy to see us and when we compliment her on the delicious food, she is humbled and grateful.

 

We found life at the farmhouse to be the beautiful balm that we needed to restore and renew our spirits.  It is peaceful and quiet, soothing and serene.  And the kindness and love that Stefano, Donatella, Maria, and the staff showed to us was the seal of authenticity that we were indeed members of the Torraccia family.  

       

The farmhouse is located on the famed Via Francigena, the ancient Pilgrims highway that led all the way from Canterbury, England to Rome.  The Archbishop of Canterbury made this journey in 990 AD and described the house in some detail, the house before reaching San Gimignano, the house that is today La Torraccia di Chiusi.  A noble Italian family, the Conti De Vecchi Abbracciabeni, lived in this farmhouse for 750 years.

 

Joyce and I first came to the farmhouse in 2010 after receiving the Lilly Grant.  We returned with a group of friends in 2017.  We came back two years later.  Our last day at the farmhouse in 2019 was Joyce’s birthday.

 

I went to breakfast early because I was returning our rental car to Siena.  I told Maritza that Joyce would be coming soon.  She rushed outside and returned with a red rose and placed it, alongside a homemade card, at Joyce’s seat.

 

When Joyce walked in the door, Maritza and Sisi sang Happy Birthday!  They hugged Joyce and wished her the most heartfelt Birthday greetings!

 

The homemade card, Maritza called a valentine.  When Joyce expressed her deep appreciation for what they had done, Sisi said, “You deserve it because you are so kind.”

 

We were taking another group to the farmhouse last year.  But Joyce’s dementia was getting worse, in fact, she was quickly declining.  I told the group they would have to go without us. 

 

I stayed in touch with Maria and kept her posted on Joyce’s condition.  I shared the sad news in February that Joyce had passed away.  Maria and the staff lit candles in the chapel for Joyce.  

 

I knew that I had to return to the farmhouse.  It was calling me to come back.  I planned the trip for early November. 

 

I decided to apply for Global Entry since I would be traveling more.  Most of the application is done online, but the final step is an in-person interview with US Customs.  I made an appointment to meet a Customs Agent at the Greensboro airport.  

 

He was very pleasant as we went through the preliminaries.  Then he asked, “When will you be traveling outside of the United States?”

 

“November,” I replied.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Italy.”

 

“Where in Italy?”

 

I told him the story of La Torraccia di Chiusi.  How Joyce and I found the farmhouse in 2010.  I told him about planning the trip last year, but not being able to go because of Joyce’s dementia.  I shared that Joyce had passed away in February and I felt the farmhouse calling me to return.

 

I looked across the table and saw tears rolling down his face.  He looked at me and said, “You are approved.  There is nothing else you need to do.”

 

When Joyce and I were preparing for a big trip, she would start putting clothes and items aside weeks in advance.  We would use a bedroom upstairs to carefully place all of our clothes to be packed.  The suitcases would come out about a week before departure.

 

Joyce was a master packer.  No one could pack a suitcase better than Joyce.  I would often try to pack my suitcase, but she would come behind me and say, “This won’t do.”  And she would repack it, much better of course than I could ever do.  

 

I was laying clothes aside for the trip.  When it came time to start packing the suitcases, I missed her packing skills greatly.  

 

I planned this trip without telling anyone.  I made reservations at the farmhouse, telling Maria that I wanted the same room where Joyce and I always stayed, “Il Gufo Reale.” (The Eagle Owl)

 

In the hallway, outside of Il Gufo Reale, there is an oval window.  You can look through the window and see the beautiful gardens of the farmhouse.  When Robin and Katherine Team came with us to the farmhouse in 2017, they took a picture through that window.  When they returned home, they had Chip Holton to paint the scene in the picture.  

 

They presented it to us for Christmas that year.  We hung the painting over our bed so we would be reminded of the farmhouse every day.  

 

When I told our friends that Joyce and I would not be able to travel to Italy last year, I did say that I planned to go back at some point in the future.  Nevin Rohrbaugh asked me one day if I planned to return to the farmhouse.  I said, “Yes, in November.”  Nevin and Suzanne, along with Lewie and Beryl Phillips, graciously offered to accompany me.  I was grateful for their company. I told them they were my chaperones!

 

We flew Lufthansa from Charlotte to Munich, then on to Florence.  About an hour before landing in Munich, one of the flight attendants who had provided excellent service, noticed that I had a book on Florence.  She asked me where I was going.  I shared the reason for my trip, to visit the farmhouse that Joyce and I both loved.  I could tell she was touched by my story.

 

A few minutes later she returned with some chocolates and a heartfelt handwritten note: “Have a wonderful stay in Tuscany!  Enjoy the light, the warmth and lots of good wine!  Best wishes!  LH Crew 429, CLT-MUC, 11-4-26.

 

We spent two nights in Florence before going to the farmhouse.  Joyce and I had been there seven times. I found myself walking around Florence, remembering all the experiences that Joyce and I shared in that wonderful city. 

 

On Friday, we caught a train to Poggibonsi.  Gianni picked us up and drove us to the farmhouse.  As we traversed the long gravel road that leads to Torracia, I was remembering Joyce and me driving that same road seven years before.  I had rented a car in Florence, which proved to be a major challenge, and I was anxious to get to the farmhouse where I could park it and forget about it for a while!

 

I remember that wonderful sunny day. I pulled the car down to the small parking area next to the pond where the geese hang out.  We got out of the car and looked around—we felt like we were home.  Then we heard a joyous, “Buongiorno Ray and Joyce!“  It was our dear friend, Maria!  Yes, we were indeed home!

 

This day was much different.  It was raining, which seemed fitting, because my heart was breaking.

 

We pulled up in front of the farmhouse.  I remember Joyce saying goodbye to our friends there in 2019.  I have pictures of Joyce, surrounded by Maria, Donatella, and Maritza as they hugged and said farewell.  

 

I stepped out of Gianni’s taxi as Maria came to greet me.  Through the tears she said, “I have no words.”  Neither did I. We hugged, and cried.  

 

Martiza was in the kitchen preparing our lunch.  I have a wonderful picture of Martiza hugging Joyce on her birthday.  They are both smiling and the homemade “valentine” was on the table beside her with the red rose.  I showed the picture to Martiza.  We hugged, and cried.   

 

 I brought a gift for Maria.  Joyce had carefully made exquisite Chrismons for everyone at the farmhouse in 2019.  After Joyce’s death, I found a container of Chrismons she had started, but never completed.  There was an angel.  It was almost finished.  One wing lacked the radiating rays that she had added to the other wing.  I knew that Joyce would want Maria to have it.  

 

She was deeply moved.  

 

An inviting fire greeted us in the dining area as we gathered for dinner.  As the weather represented my tears and sadness, the warm fire, rich hospitality, and comforting food prepared by Bruno represented the healing balm the farmhouse was providing. 

 

As I made my way back to Il Gufo Reale after dinner, I recalled the many times Joyce and I climbed those stairs together.  The room was warm and welcoming.  The bed that Joyce and I had shared was cozy and comfortable.  I reached over, as I used to every night, to feel her and tell her I loved her and goodnight.  She was not there, of course; but in so many ways she was.  I slept as soundly as I had since Joyce’s death.  There was a sense of peace.

 

The next morning, the sun was shining.  I looked out of the oval window and saw the same scene that greeted Joyce and me each morning in the painting over our bed. I walked around the gardens and marveled at the beautiful Tuscan hills surrounding me.  Then I saw a red rose, just like the one that Maritza had given Joyce on her birthday.  A beautiful red rose, in November! 

 

The woodcutter carefully laid the firewood, as he did every morning, and I enjoyed Maritza’s delicious breakfast beside the roaring fire. 

 

What is it about this place that calls me back?  That beckons me and binds me like no other?  

 

I asked Maria one morning if they had the old books that guests would write in after visiting the farmhouse.  She found the book from 2010.  On October 22, 2010, I wrote these words:

 

“In his biography on St. Francis of Assisi, Dr. Paul Sabatier writes, ‘The greatest crime of our industrial and commercial civilization is that it leaves us a taste only for that which may be bought with money, and makes us overlook the purest and truest joys which are all the time within our reach.’”

 

“In this wonderful week with you at Torraccia di Chiusi we have experienced those pure and true joys through your gracious hospitality, acceptance, and friendship.  You have opened your beautiful home to us and also your hearts.”

 

Nine months after Joyce’s passing, I answered the call to return to this special place.  Once again, I found those pure and true joys that Joyce and I first found sixteen years ago.  

 

And in the comforting cadence, the pleasant predictability, and the soothing similarity of each day, I felt that I had crossed a major milestone in my grief.  It was painful, but necessary and cathartic.  Life will continue. It will never be the same, but it will be good, in a new way—like a new rose blooming in the gardens of La Torraccia di Chiusi. 

 

 

 

 

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

 Do you remember “A Prairie Home Companion,” a radio show on NPR?  It was created and hosted by Garrison Keillor.  Every Saturday night, the folksy show would entertain with music and comedy, with an old-time radio flavor. 

 

The highlight of the show was Keillor’s weekly monologue “News from Lake Wobegon,” a fictional Minnesota town “where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.”

 

I found myself not wanting to miss the show, especially the monologue.  Keillor was a masterful storyteller.  I would be mesmerized by his words as the story came alive, often bringing laughter and even tears.  

 

I thought . . . if I can be captivated by a story, why not try this in church.  Jesus was a storyteller.  The parables are brilliant stories.  I decided that I would try this my church, Roxboro Baptist.  Instead of a sermon, I decided to sit on a stool and tell a story.  I created a fictitious town named Riverdale, a "wonderful town where people care and life is, usually, fair.”  

 

I didn’t know how it would be received, but people loved it.  

 

I brought Riverdale to Lexington.  My first Riverdale Narrative was on Mother’s Day in 1990.  

 

I had not done a Riverdale Narrative since Joyce’s death.  Several people had asked me when I was going to share a Riverdale narrative.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t feel the inspiration.  

 

But one night I saw Brannon Gilliam.  Brannon would often play and sing for my Riverdale narratives.  The song always complimented the story.  

 

I told Brannon I needed some inspiration for a Riverdale story.  He said he would sing and we agreed on “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”  That was the inspiration I needed.  Over several weeks, I crafted the story.

 

People assume the story is fiction.  Technically, yes; but it is always based on real life experience.   

 

A critical moment in the story you are about to read is when Kenny Boster is killed on his 16^th birthday.  I changed the name, but this happened to a friend of mine who was a great leader among the youth in our church.  I will never forget that tragic day.

 

I hope you will enjoy, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”

 

It’s a beautiful morning in Riverdale, that wonderful town where people care and life is, usually, fair.  

 

Maude and Agnes are sitting at their usual booth at Gower’s Drugs, Maude sipping on her large glass of chocolate milk, that luxury she never had as a child.  

 

They were discussing the preacher’s sermon the day before. Maude had not been impressed.  

 

“I think he got confused,” Maude said.  “I don’t have any idea what he was trying to say.”

 

“The reason he sounded confused,” Agnes chirped, “Is because Maude you were not paying attention.  You couldn’t take your eyes off of that awful hat that Geraldine wore to church.”

 

“It was awful,” Maude said.  “Ladies don’t wear hats very often these days, so if you do wear one make sure it is decent.  An Ostrich gave his feathers for that hat.”

 

“I don’t think it was an Ostrich,” said Agnes.   “An Ostrich feather would be huge.”

 

 

Their conversation on Ostrich feathers was interrupted by the bell jingling over the door.  They stopped talking when they saw the undertaker, Kermit Langley, walking through the door.  Kermit was the owner and founder of Langley and Sons Funeral Home.  

 

They knew immediately that someone important had died.  

 

Normally, Kermit did not venture downtown in the mornings, but when there was a death during the night, especially a prominent death, Kermit would make his rounds to Gowers Drugs, Clark and Harvey, Long’s Hardware, Timmy’s Barbershop, Grace’s Beauty Shop, and the Oak Tree Cleaners to share the sad tidings. 

 

When he saw Maude and Agnes, he removed his worn Fedora and said, “Good morning Ladies.  We lost our friend, Brother Dietrich last night.”  

 

“Oh my goodness,” said Maude.  “That is so sad. And what a shock”

 

“I feel sorry for Marvin,” Agnes said.  “They were like brothers. And his wife just died.”

 

“Six months to the day,” Kermit said somberly.  He could have told them the hour and minute of her passing if they had inquired.  

                  

Maude added, “I guess the circle is finally broken.”

 

The boys were ten-years-old when Dietrich moved to town.

 

“What’s your name?” asked Marvin.

 

“Dietrich Johannson.”

 

“That’s a funny name,” Marvin observed.

 

“You can just call me, DJ.”

 

And DJ it was.  

 

Marvin’s family lived on an old farm just outside of Riverdale.  The farm had been Marvin’s grandparents.  His father didn’t want to farm and he leased the land.  He ran an Insurance Agency in town.  Marvin invited DJ to come out to the farm one night.  

 

“Bring your sleeping bag,” he said.  “We will camp out.”  

 

There was an old barn behind the house and an open field.  Marvin asked his parents if he could build a fire in the field, and they said he could.  Marvin and DJ became fast friends that night.  They stayed up late and talked as the fire slowly burned down and then became embers. 

 

They decided to form a club.  A club needed a name and they finally settled on “The Circle.”  But a circle needed more than two people, so they said they would invite some friends to join.  Before long there were 6, 7, 8 boys who were gather around the fire, usually on a Friday night.  There was Ronald “Tidmoe Connell,” Ricky “High Who” Buckaloo, Sammy “Jeepers,” Texas Pete and some others.

 

Every time someone new came and joined the circle, they had to pledge to keep the circle unbroken.  

 

One day a war veteran came to their school and talked.  He had been a POW and you could have heard a pin drop while he spoke.  After he told about his terrible ordeal, he said to the students, “Every person in life is either a builder or a destroyer.”  “You either make the world better, or you tear it down.”  He challenged the young people to be builders. 

 

That night as the circle met around the fire, the boys talked about the veteran’s speech.  They made a commitment, that they would be builders.  

 

The circle continued to meet.  Things stayed about the same until Kenny Boster came one night.  They all knew Kenny, he was a BMOC . . . a big man on campus.  He was a year older than most of the boys, but he fit right in the Circle.

 

The second time Kenny came, he challenged the other boys.  He said, “I know we are all builders.  We want to make things better.  But you can’t build unless you have a solid foundation.  And that solid foundation is faith, it’s Jesus.  

 

All of the boys went to church, but Kenny was calling them to a deeper level of commitment.  Kenny was the leader.  The boys started to study the Bible.  They started to find ways to help others in Jesus name.  And the Circle continued to grow, it was not unbroken.  

 

Kenny would be the first one in the group to turn 16 and he was planning to be at the Driver’s License office the minute it opened on his birthday.  He said, “I think when we get our licenses, we should start bringing people to church. There are old ladies who can’t drive anymore.  We can pick them up and bring them to church.”  Kenny always had great ideas.

 

His birthday was on a Friday.  There was a big football game that night.  Then the Circle was meeting out at Marvin’s around a big fire after the game.  

 

Kenny was late getting to school because he had just gotten his license. He was so proud, showing everybody his license. The boys were envious and couldn’t wait until they were able to get their own license. 

 

When school was out, Kenny almost ran to the parking lot to jump in his car and speed away.  All the boys promised to meet at the stadium for the game.  

 

The game had just started when the word started to filter into the stadium, then it spread like wildfire.  There had been an accident.  Kenny was driving too fast.  He had been killed instantly.  

 

A pall settled over the stadium.  Most of the students left.  Slowly, the boys started to gather behind the barn.  

 

There was anger, many tears, so many questions, so much confusion.  Kenny was their leader, he was the best Christian, the best person they had ever known.  Why did God take Kenny?  How could this happen?  

 

Things were never the same after Kenny died.  One by one, the circle was beginning to break.  Some of the boys had girlfriends, others just lost interest, they all had jobs, they were making big plans for the future.  Finally, it was just DJ and Marvin again.  

 

The night of High School Graduation the two fast friends met behind the barn for the last time.  DJ was going to Danville, Virginia, to Averett College, Marvin was going to UNC Charlotte.

 

We had some good times, Marvin said.  We always said the circle would be unbroken . . . but it was, and now it really is.  

 

DJ was silent for a long time.  

 

“Maybe,” he finally said.  “But maybe not.”

 

They both met girls in college.  DJ married first.  Of course, Marvin was in the wedding.  His wife Karen was from Roanoke and her father ran a big hardware store.  He offered DJ a job.

 

Marvin went to work for his father in the insurance business.  He and Sally married and DJ came back for the wedding.  

 

They stayed in touch for several years, but both were raising families, busy in their own communities.  Marvin’s parents eventually passed away and he and Sally moved into their home.  The old barn was still there and Marvin would sometimes think about the Circle and the bonfires at night.  

 

Marvin was nearing 70.  He still went into work a couple of times a week, but he was slowing down.  Then Sally was diagnosed with cancer.  For a long year they struggled, going through agonizing treatments . . . finally she passed away.  It was just Marvin.

 

But one day the phone rang.  It was his old friend, DJ.   He was calling to tell him that he was moving back to Riverdale.  Karen had passed away rather suddenly.  None of his children lived close by.  He wanted to come home.

 

The two old friends were so happy to be reunited, and since they both had lost their wives, they really needed each other. 

 

“Do you ever think about the circle?” DJ asked one day.  “All of the time,” Marvin said.  “Those were the good old days.”

 

“Do you ever think about starting it back?”  

 

“I’m not going to sleep in a sleeping bag,” Marvin said.

 

“I’m not talking about spending the night.  You have a gas fire pit, don’t you? Tell everybody to bring a chair, and let’s get the circle going again.”

 

They invited the guys in their Sunday School class and put the word out down at Gower’s drugs and Timmy’s Barber Shop.  

 

Six guys showed up the first night.  They would meet early in the evening and by 9 o’clock they were all gone, but still, the circle was back.  

 

They didn’t meet that often, around once a month.  They never had more than 5 or 6, but the circle was back and they said they would keep it unbroken.  

 

But then, one by one, they dropped out for different reasons, usually health related.  Once again, it was just Marvin and DJ.  

 

“We always said, we would never break the circle,” DJ said.  “Even though we missed a lot of years, and it’s just me and you, the circle is still unbroken old friend, still unbroken.”  

DJ said he had a headache that night.  And he went home early.  It was the next morning when the undertaker informed the ladies that “We lost Brother Dietrich last night.”

 

The night after the funeral, Marvin could not sleep.  He had lost his wife, now he lost his best friend.   Around midnight, he went outside and turned on the fire pit.  

 

It was a beautiful night; the sky was full of stars.   

He was thinking about the night after their high school graduation, when he said, “I guess the circle is finally broken.”  And DJ said, “Maybe, but maybe not.” 

 

He looked up into the sky and thought about that beautiful Psalm, “When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers.  The moon and stars which thou hast ordained, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?”

 

Will the circle be unbroken
       By and by Lord, by and by
              There's a better home awaiting
                      In the sky Lord, in the sky.

                             There's a better home awaiting
                                    In the sky Lord, in the sky...

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Final Newspaper Column

 I wrote a religion column for the Dispatch for almost 30 years. When informed that the paper was eliminating my column along with other local writers, I asked for the courtesy of writing a final column, but initially was told that would not be possible. But, they did have a change of heart and we were at least given the opportunity to say goodbye.  I recently came across my final newspaper column:

For over a quarter of a century it has been a rare privilege and a great joy to share my thoughts and reflections with you through the pages of The Dispatch.  It was almost 30 years ago when a young Dispatch reporter by the name of Chad Killebrew stepped into my office on a Sunday morning.  He explained that Dr. Lee Jessup, who had written a weekly religion column for a number of years, was leaving First Reformed and while he would continue to write a weekly column, the paper wanted to find new writers for the religion column.  Chad asked me if I would be one of those writers.

 

I hesitated for two reasons.  One, Lee Jessup was legendary in Lexington and I knew no one could replace him.  Indeed, it took four of us to take his place! Secondly, I never really saw myself as a writer, but since the commitment was once every four weeks instead of weekly, I agreed.  I soon found myself enjoying the opportunity to reach into your hearts and homes each month through Saturday’s religion column.  

 

I have written almost 400 columns and I’m proud to say that I never missed a deadline.  (I almost missed one a few years ago, but Jill Doss-Raines emailed me when she didn’t see my column by Wednesday).   Many of my columns have been serious, many have been light-hearted.  Some have just been downright crazy!  (Does anyone remember “Joe, Mary, the Baby and the Mall?)  

 

It has been my privilege to walk with you during times of crisis: The Y2K scare, 9/11, the close of our furniture plants and textile mills, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and most recently, the COVID Pandemic.  I have shared Lexington history with you and I will always appreciate Editor Bob Stiff endorsing my proposal for our community to promote Lexington as the first Lexington named after the “shot heard round the world.”  (We were, you know.  I can prove it!)  

 

I have reflected on community events:  the BBQ Festival, the Davidson County Fair, Kamp Kiwanis, American Legion Baseball, MLK Celebrations, the Palm Sunday Community Celebration and more.  Together we have shared holidays, the changing of the seasons, and our mutual losses.  I have written about the deaths of my father, my mother, my brother, my sister, and my beloved dog, “Little Buddy.” 

 

I’ve had a wonderful relationship with The Dispatch and all of the staff.  I remember the old days when I would hand deliver a printed copy of my article.  It was always exciting to walk up those stairs and hear the buzz of the newsroom in action!  I will never forget meeting with Joe Sink in 1999 and asking if The Dispatch would sponsor our New Year’s Eve production at the Civic Center, “False Alarm at Midnight.”  I didn’t really know Joe and I was scared to death.  Joe not only graciously supported our effort, but Joe and Libby became good friends and we traveled together several times. 

In 2003 The Dispatch provided the funding for the first MLK Worship Celebration to be held in a white church—First Baptist on West Third.  The Dispatch also generously sponsored the highly successful 175^th Historical Celebration at the Civic Center that Evelyn Harris and I produced and directed.  

 

Your comments, your encouragement, your words of affirmation have meant the world to me.  It was always a blessing to meet someone in the community who told me they appreciated my columns.  Now, I’ve had a few detractors along the way.   Remember the “Bricks and Bouquets?”  I had several bricks hurled my way as well as a number of letters to the editor.  That comes with the territory.

 

But now that my final column is coming to a close, I will leave you with a word that I hope has been evident in every one of my 400 columns—kindness.   We are all children of God, we are all equal in the eyes of God.  We must respect all people and most of all, be kind.  There is something more important than being right and that is being kind.  Kindness is a gift.  Kindness is a blessing.  Kindness will not just make a difference in this world, it will transform it.  

 

Farewell, my friends.  Be kind one to another.  

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.”