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.  

We All Live Under the Sky

  In the beautiful, rolling Tuscan hills south of Florence, Italy, there is a little town on the top of a hill that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.  The Medieval City of San Gimignano was once one of the most powerful and wealthy cities in Italy.  The walled city can be seen from miles in every direction, as all medieval cities were elevated for defensive purposes.  It rests on an ancient Etruscan road, that became a Roman Road, later used by the Crusaders.  Several hundred years ago it became an important pilgrim road, the Via Francigena, that went all the way from Canterbury, England to Rome.  

 

In medieval times, rich families would build towers to display their wealth; the more money you had, the taller the tower.  At one point there were 72 towers in San Gimignano, including two identical twin towers that the architects of the Twin Towers in New York City studied.  Today, there are 14 towers remaining.  From a distance, the towers rising from the walled city give the appearance of a fairy tale castle.

           

Around 30 years ago, a group from our community traveled to Italy.  Outside of San Gimignano we visited a winery, the Tenuta Torciano that dates back to 1720.  Here is where we met the charismatic and charming owner, Pierlugia Giachi.   

 

Joyce and I returned to San Gimignano in 2010.  We were quickly reunited with Pierlugia who acted like we were long lost friends. Joyce asked me if I thought he really remembered us.  “Well,” I said.  “If he didn’t he sure put on a good show.”

 

I think he did actually remember us, because a few years later we planned a trip back to Italy with several friends.  I contacted Pierlugia to see if we could arrange a dinner at his winery.  He not only arranged the dinner for us, but he invited us to visit his home which happens to be one the 14 remaining towers in San Gimignano.  His is the only tower that is a private residence—his tower dates back to 600 AD, it was once the home of Italy’s Prime Minister.  

When someone invites you into their home it is a great honor.  It is the Biblical gift of hospitality which Pierlugia obviously has.  We socialized on his terrace together and then he invited us to climb to the top of the 1400 year-old tower.  The views from the top were absolutely stunning.  

           

As we were standing there, I expressed to him what a great honor he had given to us to invite us into his home.  He told me the honor was all his.  

 

I shared with Pierlugia that when we first met him, there were a number of people in that group who are no longer with us.  I was thinking specifically of Bob and Marge Team, and Bill and Sara Delapp. 

  

Pierlugia thought about it for a moment, then he looked at me with tears in his eyes as he pointed to the beautiful blue sky.  I will never forget his words. 

 

“Ray, we all live under the sky.  Every day is a gift.  We must Carpe Diem, ‘Seize the Day.’” 

 

We all live under the sky.  Now that Joyce is no longer with me, I think about his words often.  I look back at those wonderful trips to Italy, to Israel, and to Belize.  I think about special moments with family, of trips when the children were young.  I think about us celebrating our 25^th wedding anniversary in Hawaii and our 40^th anniversary in New York City.  

But there was one special moment in April of 2019.  Joyce and I had returned to our Tuscan Farmhouse where everyone is like family.

 

In 2010, I received a generous Sabbatical grant from the Lily Endowment. They encouraged me to use part of the money to travel.

 

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.   

 

Joyce and I visited the farmhouse four times, the last time in 2019. Our last day at the farmhouse was Joyce’s birthday.

 

The farmhouse manager, Maria, gave Joyce a gorgeous purple Iris from her garden along with a letter describing the purple Iris as a symbol of Tuscany, hope of spring.  Then she added, “Happy Birthday, Dear Joyce.  All the best for you. . . . a little scent from my garden.  Maria”

       

There was also a gift from Donatella who owns the farmhouse with her husband, Stefano.  She wrote:  “Dearest Joyce, this is a little thought for you, but with many good wishes for a sweet and very special woman with heart.  Donatella and Stefano.”  

 

Donatella creates women’s organic cosmetics and creams and has started a company named Vicustuscus, based on the secrets of the cosmetic art of the ancient Etruscan people, today rediscovered in San Gimignano. “Beauty creams that tell real stories of a magical, distant past.” She gave Joyce a tube of her hand cream.  In addition to being an archeologist, Donatella is also a chemist.

 

Maritza and Maria were excited that they could prepare a birthday lunch for Joyce.  Maria kept talking about how simple it was, but it was a lovely meal.  We started with a salad with fresh greens and the most delicious cauliflower cooked in olive oil and sautéed onion.   There was a simple dish of spaghetti, homemade pasta with tomato sauce.  It was actually some of the best pasta we have tasted in Italy.  Then we enjoyed a sautéed chicken with mushrooms and olive oil.  It was so tender it would melt in your mouth.  This was served with potatoes.  

 

When the meal was over we were getting ready to go back to the room when Maria appeared with two bowls of fresh strawberries topped with homemade whipped cream.  They were served in lovely china bowls with flowers.  Maria said, “Maritza insisted on the fine china!”

 

That evening, we made our way to the dining room where Bruno, Maria’s husband and our cook, had been working all afternoon.  Luka was the waiter tonight and Bruno was serving from the kitchen. Joyce and I were the only guests.  

       

The first course was an excellent bruschetta with tomato.   We had bruschetta every morning, but Joyce had commented one day to Maria how she enjoys bruschetta with tomato.  Then came a delicious bean soup followed by pasta with vegetables.  This was followed by the main course:  Rabbit!   Rabbit is a delicacy in Tuscany.  Bruno was going all out for Joyce’s birthday.  The rabbit was amazing---but there was more! 

       

Bruno came out with two small strawberry cakes, made with fresh strawberries.  We found out later that he had worked on the cakes all afternoon.  He lit a birthday candle, placed it on the cake and presented the cake to Joyce!   But there was even more!

       

Stefano produces an extravagant champagne.  The champagne is stored in an old Etruscan cellar.  Bruno brought out a bottle of champagne and presented it to Joyce.  “A gift from Stefano!” he exclaimed as he popped the cork.  

 

What a night!   

       

But suddenly Joyce and I looked at each other.  Bruno and Luka had returned to the kitchen.  Here we were, stuffed like birds, with delicious strawberry cake and a whole bottle of champagne.  

       

“What are we going to do with this champagne?” Joyce asked.

       

I took the champagne bottle and went into the kitchen.  There was Bruno, lighting up his usual post-dinner cigar, Luka the server, and the woodcutter for the farmhouse.  

       

I said, “Please come and join us for a toast.  We want to share the champagne with you.”

       

And they did.

       

Everyone got champagne glasses and stood around the table.  We raised our glasses high and saluted Joyce on this special birthday.  And as we did, I thought how appropriate, on this night of nights, this special day in this sacred place, that we would all enjoy a glass of extravagant champagne together—the two of us, the cook, the waiter, and the woodcutter!

       

The woodcutter smiled and seemed to relish in the moment.  In the morning he would be back at his task, chopping wood, filling his wheelbarrow, and keeping the fireplaces and wood stoves burning.  But tonight, we celebrated together as one family, all equal in the eyes of God.  As Maria said, “You are part of the Torraccia family.”

       

Joyce and I returned to our room, but before we got ready for bed we walked out on the terrace.  We looked across the beautiful Tuscan valley and saw the lights of San Gimignano with its towers shining in the distance.  We looked above at a cloudless sky and saw the stars and a crescent moon, all of God’s creation in its majestic beauty. We all live under the sky.

       

We have felt that we were living in a painting, that it couldn’t be real.  But this night was even more, it was truly magical.  And the magic came not from the breathtaking scenery, the mouthwatering food, the extravagant champagne—the magic was found in the love of friends who have accepted us as members of their family and blessed us with their kindness and compassion.  The magic came as we knew without a doubt we were a part of this loving family where even the woodcutter can raise a glass and celebrate our joy because we are all one in the family of God.

 

We all live under the sky.  Every day is a gift.  Carpe Diem, “Seize the Day!”

         

 

 

There's Something in the Water

 This Sunday we are celebrating baptism.  Emma Knopf, a Central Davidson High School Junior who has recently started attending our church will be baptized.  

 

My sermon is titled: “Something in the Water,” that is inspired by the Carrie Underwood song.  She sings, “I followed that preacher man down to the river and now I’m  . . . changed . . . And now I’m stronger.  There must’ve been something in the water.  Oh, there must’ve been something in the water.”

 

I believe with all of my heart that there is something in the water of baptism.   

 

Baptists shun the word “sacrament.”  We have always said that baptism is a symbol, just a symbol.  But I tell you, it is much more than a symbol.  I know that there is something in the water, something powerful and transformative.  I have seen it many times.  

 

I will never forget one of my first baptisms at Pollocksville Baptist Church that took place almost 50 years ago.  

 

Johnny Parker was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

 

He rode his bicycle into our back yard one day and stopped for a visit.

 

“How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about.  

 

“What pool, Johnny?”

 

 “The one in the church,” he said.  

 

I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.   

 

He silently studied it for a few moments and then asked, “Is it cold?” 

 

I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still. (Another story for another day!) Having no more questions, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

 

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

 

Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended.  

 

Finally, Johnny told me one Sunday morning that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the worship service started, Johnny had disappeared.  

 

I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him. He said he did and I talked to his father to confirm a date. 

 

It was my responsibility to fill the baptistery and rig up the suspicious heating system that really did look a lot like a still.  It was a complicated process that involved running a gas line from an outdoor propane tank, removing an air vent under the baptistery and lighting the makeshift gas stove.  As I was rigging it all up, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.   

 

Johnny was there that Sunday morning, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him and really thought he was going to back out.  He was still in the church when the time came for us to get ready for the baptism..  He followed me out the door and the choir sang a special while we prepared for the big event.  

 

Johnny was taking forever to get ready.  The choir had stopped singing and I knew everyone was sitting in silence, wondering what was going on.  Finally, Johnny appeared in his bathing suit and a t-shirt.  

 

“Are you ready,” I asked?

 

He was literally shaking.  I put my arm around him and tried to calm him down.  He finally nodded his head and said, “Okay.”

 

 

We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  For a long time, he stood at the top of the steps staring at the water, trying to make up his mind.  

 

“It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

 

Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  (I don’t know what happened.  I guess the suspicious gas heater didn’t work.)

 

Everyone laughed, which was good.  It broke the tension.

 

He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  

“Johnny, what is your confession of faith?”

 

“Jesus is Lord,” he said in a soft voice.

 

I held his arms and said, “Because of your confession, I now baptize you Johnny, my brother, the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

 

He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

 

Just as quickly, he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool.  

 

There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

 

I believe that there is something in the water. 

 

The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think we heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

 

                                                  

She Will Always Be With Me

 In the well-known poem, “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep,” we find the words:

 "I am a thousand winds that blow.

       I am the diamond glints on snow.
              I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
                      I am the gentle autumn rain."

 

Almost every day, I am reminded that Joyce is still with me.  I see her fountain in the backyard, her favorite chair still sits in the den, I walk by the Life Center where she spent many good days, and every Sunday I can see her sitting in church. . . she is with me and always will be.  

 

My grandmother died in 1983.  It was a Sunday morning.  There were two or three ladies that my grandmother would pick up on the way to church.  She would always call them to make sure they planned to go.  When they didn’t get her call, they called my mother who went to my grandmother’s house and found her.  She had died in her sleep—a wonderful way to go.  

 

My mother wisely decided not to call me before our church service started.  She waited until she knew the worship service was underway and then called the church office at Roxboro Baptist Church.  I remember hearing the telephone and thinking that it was odd for someone to call on a Sunday morning.  After church, someone handed me a note to call my mother.  

 

That was 43 years ago, but I can still feel my grandmother’s presence at times.  I remember different things from her house.  I inherited her marble clock that sits on my mantle.  I have her china cabinet in my dining room.  

 

My grandmother had a reproduction of a popular painting in her bedroom.  It was a Madonna and Child—which is strange considering she was an old-school Baptist. It is a painting by the Italian artist, Roberto Ferruzzi, named “The Madonnina” or commonly called, “The Madonna of the Streets.”  My guess is that my grandmother purchased this painting on one of her trips to Italy. 

 

I don’t know what happened to this painting, but I vividly remember it in her bedroom.  It would be the painting she would see first thing every morning and the last thing she would see at night.  

 

Seven years ago, Joyce and I were on Sabbatical and traveled to the beautiful city of Salzburg in Austria. We took the train from Munich to Salzburg.  The scenery is breathtaking.  Everything about this city was simply beautiful.

 

I had been thinking about my grandmother because one of her favorite movies was, “The Sound of Music.”  She took me as a child to see it.  She loved Julie Andrews.  We took a delightful “Sound of Music” tour in Salzburg that my grandmother would have loved. 

I made arrangements to stay at a small hotel away from the city center. When I told the taxi driver where we were going, he said: “That is a lovely place close to the mountains.”

 

The Bloberger Hof is like something out of a movie.  It is a Swiss Chalet house run by a wonderful Austrian family with small children along with the grandparents.  You felt like you were staying in a home rather than a hotel.

 

When we walked into our spacious room we immediately walked out to the balcony with the flower baskets in this idyllic home.  From our balcony we had a fantastic view of the majestic mountains—some still had snow—and a distant view of the snowcapped Alps.  We marveled at the scene before us!  Those hills were truly alive!

 

Joyce walked back into the room while I lingered on the balcony.  I was mesmerized by the overwhelming beauty.  I thought about my grandmother who visited Salzburg back in the 1960s.  No wonder she loved this place, I thought.

 

Then I walked back into our wonderful suite and for the first time, saw a beautiful painting on the wall.  I stopped.  I did a double-take.  I could not believe what I was seeing!   

 

It was a copy of Roberto Ferruzzi’s “Madonnia;” the same painting that my grandmother had in her bedroom.

 

I called Joyce and had her look at the painting.  I told her about that same painting being in my grandmother’s bedroom.  We both stood and stared, not knowing what to say.

 

Then, for some reason, I looked at my watch.  The date was May 22, 2019.  May 22.  

 

I froze.   A chill went down my spine.  It was May 22, 1983 when my grandmother died.   

 

Yes, she will always be with me.