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.

My Big Sister

      I was probably four or five years old before I knew I had a name.  Because I had an older sister, I was simply called: “Little Brother.”   My sister, Nancy, was three years older and I grew up in her shadow.

        Nancy was a brilliant student.  I don’t think she ever made a B in school.  She graduated as Valedictorian of her High School class and number one in her Law School class.  That was a tough act for me to follow!

        The first day of school usually went something like this:  “Oh, you are Nancy’s little brother.  She’s so smart.  I’m sure you are just as smart as she is.”

        Wrong!

        Not that I was a bad student, but growing up in my sister’s shadow was an ominous burden to bear.  Education was always a priority for us.  We attended elementary school in a building that had our great-grandfather’s name on the cornerstone.  Our principal, “Fessor Burleson,” taught our father and our grandfather.  Our grandmother taught in a one-room schoolhouse and our father was on the School Board.  Yes, education was very important.

But even more important was our faith.  We had a great-grandfather who was a Baptist minister.  Our father was a deacon in the church and taught Sunday School.  Our mother worked with mission groups.  Our grandmother was in charge of the Missionary Society and I always had a suspicion that she really ran the church!  Our church was not just a part of our life; it was the foundation of our life.  

 

My sister excelled in church just as she did in school.  Once again, I was “Little Brother” who was growing up in her shadow.  But as I look back on it now, I realize that growing up in her shadow was not detrimental, but instrumental—for she set the standard for excellence and I was always inspired to work a little harder, to climb a little higher, to run a little faster because my big sister inspired me to give my very best. 

        My big sister was always there for me when we were growing up.  Her legacy not only preceded me through Elementary and High School, but when I enrolled in Samford University, she enrolled in their law school, the Cumberland School of Law.  

    She married after graduating from Law School and asked me to perform the wedding.  I didn’t have a clue what to do, but I had been trying to keep up with my big sister my whole life and I wasn’t going to let her down now.  When she moved away to New York I realized that for the first time in my life, I was no longer in my sister’s shadow.   

        She was a busy lawyer in New York.  I was a busy minister in North Carolina.  As the years went by we grew apart.  Over twenty-five years ago my sister was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.  She battled valiantly and courageously until the fall of 2019 when the battle ended.     

My nieces and nephews asked me to speak at her funeral service.  While I conduct funerals on a regular basis as a minister, this was different.  I felt as inadequate as I did when she asked me to perform her wedding.  But this was my big sister and once again, I wasn’t about to let her down.

        My thoughts went back to those formative years when I was simply, “Little Brother.”  The shadow that she cast over me was one of exceptional achievement.  Within that shadow I learned about hard work, honesty, integrity, commitment, and loyalty.  Together our family and our faith community instilled deep and lasting spiritual values within us.  We learned about service, sacrifice, compassion, forgiveness, and faith.  

        As I stood before her church family in Tuscaloosa and later in our hometown cemetery, I felt her shadow over me once again.  Only this time her shadow was not an ominous burden to bear, but a comforting presence that surrounded me with faith, hope, and love.  And because of those values that I learned within her shadow, I could share the good news that my big sister had fought the good fight, she had finished her course, and she kept the faith.  Once again, she has excelled!

 

 

 

 

 

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?”