A Frozen Bag of Collards Sent Me Crashing

 Joyce was an outstanding cook, a great southern cook.  One of her specialties was collard greens.  No one could cook collards like my Joyce.  

 

Cooking collards Joyce’s way took several days and was an intensive, hands-on process.  Joyce preferred cabbage collards from the eastern part of the state.  Back when I had a truck, we would drive to Johnston County and fill the back of the truck with cabbage collards.  In later years, I would have Lee Hinkle at Conrad and Hinkle order me two or three cases of collards.  But there was one fast rule; we could not get the collards until the first frost had come.  

 

It was usually late November or early December when the frost had come and we would cook collards.  She liked to have them done by Thanksgiving, but sometimes they were later.  We cooked them outdoors.  I sat up a long table where Joyce would carefully cut the collards and prepare them for the boiling water.  I had the outdoor gas cooker ready and we would boil a huge pot of water.  Before we added the collards, Joyce had a combination of side meat, fatback, ham hocks, salt, seasoning, and bacon grease that she would add.  Once all was just right, we would add the collards.

 

The timing was critical.  Cook them too long and they would be mushy.  Don’t cook them long enough and they would be tough.  Joyce didn’t need a timer, she could look at the collards and tell when it was time for them to come out of the water. 

Joyce’s collards were the best.  I know I’m biased, but they were the best.  

 

The last time we cooked collards, Bruce Hill had just come home from surgery at Baptist Hospital.  Bruce is from down east and we knew he would love collards.  Joyce took Bruce and Ginger a big pot of the fresh collards.  Bruce told Joyce those collards healed him!  

 

There was one freezer bag of collards left over from that last time we cooked them.  I had seen it in the freezer and thought I needed to use them before they would be in the freezer too long.  On Monday of this week, I did.

 

I thawed them out during the day and warmed them up on the stove.  I was looking forward to some delicious collards again, but had not stopped to think about the big picture.  

 

When I put the first bite of the collards in my mouth, it hit me.  Oh, they were delicious.  They were Joyce’s collards.  They had that unique taste and texture.  There was that certain way she cut them and seasoned them.  Hers were unique.  And that was the problem, they were Joyce’s collards . .Suddenly, I realized that I was eating the last food Joyce would ever prepare for me, and I lost it.  I had a meltdown.  

 

Joyce has been gone for 3 months now.  I thought I was doing better, but that frozen bag of collards sent me crashing down again.  

 

I know enough about grief to know that at three months I am just beginning to grieve.  It will still be painful after a year, after three years, after five years. 

 

Sometimes grief hits you when you don’t expect it.   That’s what happened to me when I tasted those delicious collards and I knew that only Joyce could have fixed them that well. 

 

But Joyce is not with me.  For a brief moment when I tasted them, Joyce was back.  I could feel her presence and her loving care.  But then she was gone, and she will never be back.  That painful reality hit me hard, very hard.  

 

Someone has said, “Grief is like the ocean; It comes in waves, ebbing and flowing.  Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming.  All we can do is learn to swim.”

 

I’m just beginning to learn how to swim.

 

 

The Journey

 This message was preached at First Baptist Church on March 22, 2026, five weeks after Joyce passed away.

My oldest daughter, Lynn, and I were alone with Joyce at the Hospice House.  It was Saturday night on Valentine’s Day.  Everyone had been there that day.  All four children and their families; almost all the grandchildren.  They all had a chance to say goodbye to Gmommy, Grandmommy, to Momma.  

 

Lynn and I were spending the night with her.  Ray Nance, Sang, and Ella Rae were there and when they left I told them that I would let them know if anything changed.

 

As Lynn and I were talking, we were reminiscing and I said: “Lynn, do you know the first time I met your mom?”

 

It was October 16, 1977, and the Pollocksville Baptist Church had invited me to preach a “trial sermon.”  It was a great day.  The little church was full, the atmosphere was happy and welcoming.  I preached on the Prodigal Son, which was about the only sermon I had, well, the only good one.

 

I vaguely remember all the people coming out the front door, but I distinctly remember a young couple.  I remember them because the wife said, "Hello, my name is Joyce and this is my husband, Ernie."  

 

The church had a nice covered dish and when it was over I was preparing to go back to Wake Forest when a little girl ran up to me, she was 10 years old.  “Are you going to be our new teacher?” she asked.  

 

The little girl was Paula, Paula Lynn, the oldest daughter of Joyce and Ernie.

 

The next Sunday I stood by the only phone on the 3^rd floor of Johnson Dorm at Old Wake Forest and told the other guys they could not use it until I got my phone call.  The phone rang and Nicky Miller, the chair of the Pulpit Committee said, “Congratulations.  The church just voted unanimously to call you as our pastor."

 

But then he added; “we have had a terrible tragedy.”  

 

On Monday, the day after my trial sermon, Ernie took his little boat out on the Trent River.  It was the first day of hunting season.  Ernie never came home.  They found his boat floating upside down in the river.  

 

When I received that phone call on Sunday, Ernie had been missing for six days.  The next day I drove to Pollocksville.  

 

I walked into the living room of Joyce’s home and saw her standing in the hallway.  The unbelievable stress of the situation was showing.  She walked up to me and we hugged each other.  She said, “When they find his body, will you do his funeral.”

 

I told Lynn there was an immediate connection.  I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew that Joyce and I shared a kindred spirit. 

They found his body on Wednesday and I conducted the funeral on Saturday. 

 

I was a new pastor and I was trying to be very attentive to Joyce’s needs and those of her family.  I can’t tell you exactly when it happened, when I started to feel an attraction to Joyce.  But I can tell you that when Thanksgiving rolled around, Joyce kindly informed me that I had done my duty as a pastor and I did not need to see them anymore.  

 

But then came the Sunday in December when Joyce was going to decorate the Christmas tree with her children.  Paula Lynn found me at church and invited me to come and help.  When I showed up at the door, Joyce said, “What are you doing here?  I thought I told you not to come back.”

 

But Paula Lynn spoke up and said, “Momma, I invited him to come and help decorate the tree.”  

 

After Christmas things moved quickly.  The little town of Pollocksville was transformed into Peyton Place, and if you don’t understand that reference you are still young.  The new preacher was dating the young widow with the three children.  There was drama and scandal all around.  

 

On Valentine’s Day in 1978 I proposed to Joyce. 

 

She said, “It’s too early.”  

 

I said, that’s okay, we can wait as long as you want to wait but I intend to marry you, because I love you.  We waited until August. And on August 7 at 7 p.m., Paula Lynn, along with Della and Knight, walked us down the aisle as we promised to be faithful in sickness and in health till death do us part.  

 

People said that I just felt sorry for Joyce.  People said it wouldn’t last. Which I think is why for the past few months when someone would ask Joyce how she was doing, she would look at me and say, “Tell them how many years we have been married!”   

 

48, I would say.  48 years.  48 wonderful years.  

 

Joyce was my wife, my best friend, and my partner in ministry.  Not many people know that as a young girl, she had received a call to ministry.  She had come early to GA’s one night and was alone in the church.  She said she stood in the pulpit and pretended to preach when she was overwhelmed by the presence of Jesus who spoke to her and called her to do something special with her life. 

 

But life happens.  She was married when she was 17, primarily to escape a volatile home situation, and now she had 3 children.  

 

But God wasn’t finished with her calling.  She quickly became the Preacher’s Wife, and what a Preacher’s Wife she was.  Rod Penry always told her that she needed to go to Preacher’s Wife School because she broke the mold.  

 

And yes, she was an unconventional preacher’s wife, but in ways large and small, she encouraged me, she supported me, and she enriched the life of the church.  

 

Most of you remember that Joyce was always doing something with her hands, she knitted, crocheted, cross-stitched, Gail Lanning even tried to teach her how to Tat.  

 

When Sue Brown started the prayer shawl ministry, Joyce quickly started making prayer shawls.  She gave one to Irene Brady who was dying of cancer.  Irene wrote the most beautiful note.  She said that when she wrapped that shawl around her, she could feel the love of her church family, and the love of God. 

 

Joyce always made a senior afghan for one of the graduating seniors. I received a touching note from Colin Beamer, who came all the way from Raleigh to attend the funeral.  Colin wrote: “I still have the shawls she made for me back when I went off to NC State.  I will cherish them forever!”

 

And of course, you all know the special joy that Joyce found in later years crafting beautiful Chrismons for our Chrismon tree.

 

In 2010 Joyce and I took over the youth ministry in our church.  The years we spent working with our young people were some of the happiest and most fulfilling years of our ministry.  I must say this, I could not have done this without Tommy Wilson.  Tommy assumed a greater role of ministry so Joyce and I could devote our time to the young people.  

 

Eight years ago, we traveled to the Holy Land and on February 27, 2018, I baptized Joyce in the Jordan River.  The picture that so many of you have seen of that day was taken by Robin Team.  

 

It was a moment of profound faith, commitment and love.  Little did we know that the next 8 years would take us on a journey of heartache, pain, confusion, and suffering and it would result in Joyce gathering at the river that flows by the throne of God.

 

It was little things at first, things that we look back on now and realize what was happening. 

 

Remember when we had a rope, that nice velvet rope, around the Chrismon Tree?  Joyce was convinced that people had stolen Chrismons from the tree.  But they had not.  She wanted to put a camera on the tree.  Part of dementia is paranoia, in her mind people were going to steal something of great value, and there was nothing Joyce valued more than those beautiful Chrismons.

 

We were in the car one day, in a rush and I needed to write a check.  I gave her the checkbook and asked her to write a check to somebody.  She fumbled with it for a few minutes and then I realized that Joyce, who had a been a banker, did not know how to write a check anymore.

It was first diagnosed as Mild Cognitive Impairment, but it quickly changed to dementia.  The day the doctor told us Joyce had dementia she told Joyce that she did not want her driving anymore.  Joyce didn’t hear the dementia part, but she sure heard the part about not driving.  Three months later the doctor followed up with a phone visit.  When she asked how things were going, Joyce quickly said, just fine. I’m driving everywhere I want to go, even though she had not been behind the wheel.  

 

We went through all the different stages of dementia.  Even though I resisted at first, I finally started taking Joyce to the Life Center and that was a tremendous blessing.  Catherine and the staff at the Life Center were my angels for the better part of last year.  

 

But the dementia continued to progress.  Joyce loved her little dog, Sweet Pea.  Sweet Pea had her own health problems, but I was afraid Joyce would trip and fall over Sweet Pea in the house.  In October, I carried Sweet Pea to Dr. Ralph Ashley and we put Sweet Pea to sleep.

 

I didn’t know how Joyce would react, but she never missed Sweet Pea.  She never asked about Sweet Pea.  That was how much she had declined.

 

I decided in November that it was time to place Joyce in Memory Care. I simply could not provide the level of care that she needed and deserved.  She was scheduled to move in December 29.  But the day after Christmas, Joyce was hospitalized with pneumonia and the flu.  She never really recovered.  We spent four days in the hospital and 5 weeks at Abbott’s Creek.  She finally made it to memory care, but was really too weak to stay.  On Thursday night, February 12, Joyce fell out of the bed during the night.  

 

The Hospice nurse came in the morning.  Before the day was over, we were at the Hospice House.  And then came Saturday, February 14. 

 

What have I learned from our journey?  There are four things:

 

We cannot go around suffering, but we can go through it.

 

I don’t think I ever really asked why.  I have been around suffering long enough to know that no one is immune, the rain falls on the just and the unjust, some suffering is almost inevitable in every life.  We cannot avoid suffering, but we can go through suffering because Jesus went through suffering.  The way is never easy, from a garden called Gethsemane, to the house of Caiaphas, to the Roman Fortress with Pontius Pilate, to a hill called Calvary.

 

Jesus not only suffered for us, but he suffers with us. When our hearts are broken, his heart is broken. When we suffer, Jesus shares in our suffering, he identifies with our suffering, and gives us the strength to go through it because he went through it.

 

Paul wrote: “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison”

 

In the words of Soren Kirkegard, “There is in life one blessed joy: to follow Christ unto death; and there is in death one last blessed joy; to follow Christ to life.” 

 

Eyes blinded by tears cannot see the stars.

 

The seven weeks between Christmas and Valentine’s Day were the hardest, most difficult weeks of my life, and it was even worse for Joyce.  Ray Nance said, “The valley of the shadow of dementia is worse than the valley of the shadow of death.”  That is very true. 

 

On Christmas Day, Joyce was fairly independent physically, she could walk, she could feed herself, she could take care of her needs. But after being in the hospital, she could not walk, she could not feed herself, she could not do anything for herself. . . it was humiliating, degrading, agonizing, and she did not understand what going on, she often would say, why are you doing this to me.  

 

The worse day was the day of Tommy’s funeral.  It was already such a difficult day.  Della was coming to stay with Joyce.  About 30 minutes before the funeral, Della called me.  “Daddy, Momma is dehydrated.  They are trying to put an IV in, but they cannot.  They say they need to put in a pic line, but they can’t do that without your permission.” 

 

They had to call a nurse from Charlotte.  It was an agonizing process, very painful.  My job was to hold Joyce and keep her from moving.  The nurse kept saying, “You can’t let her move.  You can’t let her move.”

 

Joyce did not understand any of this.  She kept saying, “Why?  Why are you doing this to me?”  I just about killed me.

 

That was when I said, we can’t continue to do this.  This has to stop.  

 

I never really thought that God had forsaken me, I knew God was there, but I must be honest, I could not see God.  He was hidden from me.  Eyes blinded by tears cannot see the stars.

 

Even though I could not see God then, I look back now and realize that God was sending reminders that he was still there.  He sent his angels.  Many of those angels were you.

You were so faithful to come and visit, many of you stayed with Joyce for a few hours, you came to feed her, what a blessing that was, you came to be with her.  She may not have responded, I know she couldn’t call your name, but I have no doubt that Joyce knew she was surrounded by love. 

 

Love never dies, love is not diminished by sickness, suffering, and death.

 

The hardest part of the journey for me was that I often felt totally helpless and there were many times I was helpless.  You know the look of dementia, there were times that Joyce would look at me with those eyes that were pleading, help, help me.  

 

It was as if she was drowning, and I was reaching trying to save her, to pull her out of the abyss, to keep her from leaving me . . . but nothing I could do could save her.  It was at times the most helpless and hopeless feeling of my life. 

 

I kept reminding myself of something that I have often said to families who had gone through similar situations.  You have not been helpless, you have given your loved one the greatest gift of all, the gift of love.  

 

But my own words rang hollow.

 

It was not until later that I started to see that even though I thought I had lost everything, I had not lost love.

 

There were times she did not know me, but when she did she often said I love you.  And I constantly told her that I loved her.  

 

The Saturday before Joyce died I was in Indiana for the funeral of Dave Colescott’s father.  Della came to stay with Joyce.  Even though Della had been there a couple of weeks before, she was shocked at how much her mother had declined.  Della started to cry.  Joyce saw this and motioned for Della to come to her.  She did and Joyce said to her very clearly: “I’m your mother.  I love you.  Stop crying.  God will take care of this.”

 

I had some wonderful ladies who were staying with Joyce at night at Abbotts Creek.  With the ice storm coming I knew that they could not be there, so I decided to stay with Joyce the whole time.  I brought a sleeping bag and the wonderful staff at Abbotts Creek brought me a mattress to place on the floor.  For over a week, I slept on the floor beside Joyce’s bed.

 

The day we moved Joyce to Brookdale was the Friday before the big snow.  It started snowing that night and I could not get to her.  On the third night they called me from Brookdale.  They said, “Mr. Howell, we need to let you know that we found your wife on the floor beside her bed.  She did not fall.  She placed a blanket on the floor.  She was there on purpose.”

 

I told them that I knew why Joyce was on the floor.  She was looking for me.  Love never dies. 

 

We give up those whom we love not to death, but to a living Christ.  

 

A few years ago, when my mother was dying, my good friend, Arnetta Beverly sent me a message.  She simply said, “The Angels are Hovering.”  I thought about that on Saturday at the Hospice House.

 

 The Angels hovered to give our family time to gather.  The angels hovered until everyone was gone . .  Lynn and I were alone and Lynn said, I think that is way Momma wanted it . . it was Lynn who invited me to come back and be a part of their lives when Joyce had seen enough of that preacher. 

 

9:48 p.m. the angels descended and they gently lifted Joyce out of the dark veil of dementia into the glorious light of the presence of Christ who embraced her with loving arms.  And I told her, Honey you don’t have dementia anymore.

 

 

 

 

It's Been a While

 It’s been a while.  

Over three years actually, since I have posted anything on my Blog.  I had only one post in 2023 after we had returned from the Holy Land.  I haven’t posted anything since then, primarily because my life has been turned upside down.

I had noticed some issues with Joyce’s memory.  We went to a neurologist who diagnosed her with “Mild Cognitive Impairment.”  She explained that Joyce could remain about where she was or she could get worse.  But she would not get better.  

She got worse. 

She was diagnosed with dementia and things started to decline, slowly at first but then very rapidly.  

Early last year in 2025, I placed Joyce in the Life Center.  It’s an adult day care that specializes in dementia.  They are wonderful, so kind and compassionate.  They became my angels.

We started going two days a week but soon increased to five days.  Joyce thought she was going to work at the Life Center.  She never realized that she was going because she needed it.  

It got to the point that I could not leave Joyce, not even to go for a walk in the neighborhood.  I was with her constantly and it was becoming a 24/7 responsibility.

Melissa Routh, who was battling pancreatic cancer, contacted me and recommended that I read “The 36-Hour Day.”  The title says it all . . . it never ends.

I finally reached the very painful decision to place Joyce in Memory Care.  We had made arrangements for her to begin on December 29.  But the day after Christmas, she became ill with pneumonia and the flu.  I called 911.  She was transported to the hospital where she spent 4 days.  Then we moved to Abbotts Creek for five weeks of Rehab.  

The first week we were in Abbotts Creek was not good.  Joyce was barely eating and not responding to therapy.  I talked to Hospice on the doctor’s recommendation.  But then Joyce started to improve and our hopes increased. We hoped she would still be able to go to Memory Care.  

We moved to Brookdale for Memory Care on January 30.  Joyce was there for 13 days.  On the night of February 12, Joyce fell out of the bed.  The next morning, we called the Hospice Nurse.  Before the day was over we had moved to the Hospice House.  Joyce died around 9:50 p.m. on the night of February 14, Valentine’s Day.  

Joyce has been gone for over two months now, but it is not getting any easier.  In fact, in many ways it is much more difficult.  I thought it might help if I started to write again.  I know it will be good for me, and I hope it will help others.  

People ask me how I am doing.  I usually say, “Okay” or “Hanging in there.”  But the truth is I am not okay.  How can you be okay when your wife of 48 years is gone?   

I did not speak at the funeral.  Ray Nance did and he was outstanding.  My daughter, Lynn, spoke and she was very eloquent.  All five of our grandchildren shared Scripture readings.  The choir was fantastic.  They sang “Shall We Gather at the River” and “The Majesty and Glory of Your Name.”  The church was full.  I could not have asked for anything more.  

The day after the funeral I started delivering flowers.  I took flowers to Abbotts Creek, Brookdale, and the Life Center.  I took flowers to the Spa where Joyce got her hair and nails done.  I took them to the cleaners where they were always so kind to her and to the funeral home for the compassionate service they provided.  I took them to the hospital to thank them for their excellent care.  And I left flowers at the church, the church she loved and served.  

I had plenty to keep me busy.  On March 22, I delivered a sermon titled “The Journey.”   It was my personal story of all we had been through.   I will share it in the next post.  

 

Surely The Lord Is In This Place

    

I just returned from my seventh trip to the Holy Land.  Seventeen pilgrims made this journey.  I have stressed that this is a pilgrimage, not a trip . . . because as people of faith we see this journey in a different perspective. 

 

I am sometimes asked if it ever gets old—traveling to Israel.  It does not.  I learn new truths every time I go, but the greatest joy for me is to see the transformation that takes place in the lives of those who travel with me.  

It has caused me to ponder the power of pilgrimage.  With that in mind, here are some reflections:

 

What is it about this place that pulls us into its presence?  How do we explain this mysterious force that draws us, this mystical call that beckons us, this ethereal conviction that persuades us to go to a country where there is a constant travel advisory and family and friends worry about our safety?  Why do we pay thousands of dollars to fly 6,000 miles to a troubled land full of jagged rocks, barren wilderness, and intense political division?

 

 

 

Of all the places on the face of the earth, why this land?  The answer is found not in where we go, but why we go; not in our destination but our determination, for we go not as tourists, but as pilgrims, we are not on holiday but on a holy journey.  We travel to Palestine, not because it is the nation of Israel, but because it is the Holy Land, the land of the Bible.  

 

To understand the power that draws us to the distant land, we must understand the nature of holiness.  We stand on the Mount of Olives not merely to marvel at the beautiful vista, but because the crucible of the Passion is played out before our very eyes.  Our physical eyes see the glowing Dome of the Rock, but our spiritual eyes see the majestic Temple of Jesus’ day.  We can visualize the palm fronds and hear the shouts of “Hosanna” as the humble man from Galilee rides a donkey through the Golden Gate into the Holy City.  

 

We walk into a Byzantine church, stand in a menagerie of jostling humanity, listening to a cacophony of languages, all clamoring to reach one spot that rests down steep steps through a narrow door in an ancient cave.  We kneel down to touch a slimy rock as millions have done before us, touching the rock in Bethlehem where God knelt down to touch the earth 2,000 years ago.  And when we do—we feel the power, we are overcome with the mysterious presence and we know why Simon Montefiore wrote that this land has become “the essential place on earth for communication between God and man.”

 

 Isn’t God everywhere and can’t we communicate with God anywhere we may be?  Of course, we can.   And for that very reason I resisted traveling to the Holy Land for many years.   But when I did make my first journey over 25 years ago, I experienced the reality of “Sacred Space,” of what Montefiore calls “Holiness.”   

 

As we sailed in a little boat on the Sea of Galilee a gentle breeze caressed my face and suddenly I was overcome with a powerful sense of contentment, fulfillment, and peace—what the Bible calls “Shalom.”  I had the strange sensation that I had been there before.  Then I realized that indeed I had been there on the Sea of Galilee my entire life.  From the time I was a small child in Sunday School, to a teenager on a mission trip, to a college student studying religion—this was my spiritual center.  I had traveled half way around the world to come home.  

 

Montefiore wrote:  “Many atheistic visitors are repelled by this holiness, seeing it as infectious superstition in a city suffering a pandemic of righteous bigotry. But that is to deny the profound human need for religion without which it is impossible to understand Jerusalem. Religions must explain the fragile joys and perpetual anxieties that mystify and frighten humanity: we need to sense a greater force than ourselves.”

And that is a number of your friends and neighbors recently experienced; “a greater force than ourselves,” as we traveled to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage of faith.  From a stirring sunrise over the Sea of Galilee, to the cold waters of the Jordan River rejoicing in baptisms, to the lonely and chilling pit where Jesus was held at the house of Caiaphas hours before his crucifixion, to the tomb that remains as empty today as it was 2,000 years ago, the force of life and light inspired and illuminated our dynamic pilgrimage.  And we echoed the proclamation of Jacob centuries ago, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” 

 

 

It Is Still A Wonderful World

  

It has been a long time, too long really, since I have written a column in this space.  My last column was in August of last year, almost 11 months ago!  I was recovering from cancer surgery and I shared the blessings I had received through that unexpected journey.  When I heard the words that my pathology report was “fantastic—praise the Lord!”  I thought my brush with serious illness was over.  All I needed to do was regain my strength and life would return to normal.  Little did I know.  

 

We live in a wonderful neighborhood for walking.  I started a focused walking regiment in which I was gradually increasing my time and distance. It wasn’t easy at first, but I had increased to over four miles each day.  Joyce said I was overdoing it!

 

On a particularly beautiful November morning, I was thinking about how blessed I was.  The leaves were turning, a deer crossed the road in front of me, and I was cancer free!  I could almost hear Louis Armstrong singing, “What A Wonderful World.”  

 

Then, it happened.

 

My left ankle started to hurt.  I didn’t recall twisting it or stepping the wrong way, but I was seriously limping by the time I got back to the house.  When I took off my shoe, my ankle had swollen dramatically.  

 

“Oh, my goodness,” I said.  “I’ve sprained my ankle.”   I should have listened to Joyce.

 

I contacted my Orthopedic Doctor and good friend, Gordon Kammire.  He told me to come in right away.  When he looked at my ankle he said, “Your ankle is angry at you, Ray.  Your body is trying to tell you something.”

 

My body was trying to tell me that I had injured my Achilles Tendon.  It had not ruptured, but it was close.  The official diagnosis was acute Achilles tendinitis.  I was fitted for a boot.  My walking days had come to an inglorious end! 

 

All through the holidays, I wore that dadgum boot.   It was especially awkward when I was leading worship.  Just getting up out of a chair was a struggle.  I had a couple of people tell me that they felt so sorry for me as they watched me during our Christmas Eve service.

 

But the new year brought new hope.  My Achilles was healing and finally Dr. Kammire told me that I could retire that dadgum boot.  I could even start walking again, but . . . don’t overdo it!!   

 

I was being a good boy, and I was not overdoing it, but I noticed that my left leg was constantly swollen.  I returned to see my good doctor who decided that after we ruled out a blood clot, which we did, I would need an MRI to determine what was going on.  

 

I had just finished my Thursday morning Bible Study at the YMCA when Dr. Kammire called me with the results.  “You have a condition called lymphedema,” he said.  

 

I had never heard of it.

 

When I had my cancer surgery, my surgeon removed several lymph nodes surrounding the prostate which is very common.  I guess it never occurred to me that those lymph nodes were there for a reason!  

 

The lymphatic system is a network of lymph vessels, tissues, and organs that carry lymph fluid throughout the body.  It is part of the immune system and helps to protect the body from infection, maintaining body fluid levels, absorbing digestive tract fats and removing cellular waste.  Lymphedema occurs when the lymph fluid is not able to flow through the body the way it should, resulting in a build-up of fluid, which explained why my leg was constantly swollen.

 

The Achilles injury had triggered a traffic jam in my left leg and lymphedema was the result.  I quickly learned that I was not alone with this condition.  Many women who have breast surgery develop lymphedema in one of their arms.  

 

Since the lymph fluid was not moving in my leg, it was necessary to move it manually.  It would require physical therapy.  I was thinking that after a few weeks of PT, I would be completely healed.  

 

I was wrong.   

 

There is no cure for lymphedema.  It will never heal; the goal is to keep it under control. 

 

After a few weeks of therapy, my therapist ordered a device for me called a Lympha Press. It is a pneumatic compression pump, made in Israel, that stimulates the lymphatic fluid in my leg.  I use it for an hour each night and it always decreases the swelling in my leg.   

 

My world is different now.  In addition to the daily Lympha Press treatment, I must wear compression socks.  They make quite the fashion statement with shorts!  And because regular shoes are difficult to wear, I wear Hokas—all the time, even on Sunday.  I call them my Hoda Kotbs. But the good news is that I am walking again.  I won’t be walking 4 miles a day, but I walk about a mile and a-half most mornings.  And, I am still cancer free!  

 

Yes, the journey continues, not as fast as it was going before, but it does continue . . . and you know what, it is still a wonderful world!

 

 

A Journey of Blessing

  

For the past two months I have been on a journey.  I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing when I learned I had cancer.  

 

We had just completed the June Executive Committee Meeting at Lexington Medical Center.  It was our first in-person meeting since the beginning of the Pandemic.  COVID cases were declining.  As we sat around the conference table and enjoyed a light lunch after the meeting, we were talking about how good it was for life to be returning to normal.  As I walked out into the bright sunlight of a beautiful June day, I was thinking about our church and how, slowly but surely, we were welcoming people back to Sunday School and worship.  That is when my phone buzzed.  

 

It was Dr. Hemal’s office (my urologist) in Winston-Salem.  His nurse asked me if I had a few minutes to talk.  I walked over to the beautiful fountain in front of the hospital as I waited for Dr. Hemal to get on the line.  He started the conversation by saying, “I’m afraid I don’t have good news.” 

 

That was the beginning of a journey that many of you have traveled through the years.  I have always been on the outside, looking in, but now I was the one taking the journey.   As many of you know, it is not easy.  

 

Two days after my surgery at Wake Forest Baptist Hospital, Dr. Hemal walked into my room to check on me before I was discharged.  He told me that I had been blessed. 

 

“We were blessed to find the cancer when we did,” he said.  And because COVID cases are rising so rapidly he added, “And we were blessed to be able to have the surgery when we did.”

 

This week I received another blessing.  My pathology report came back clean.  The bone scan, MRI, tissue samples, and lymph nodes all came back with no trace of cancer.  Dr. Hemal said, “The pathology report looks fantastic.”

 

The greatest blessing that I have received during this journey is the constant assurance of God’s love and grace.  This has been demonstrated through the love and care of my family, through your many expressions of prayerful intercession, love, and support, and through the gifted healthcare professionals who have allowed God to use their gifts of healing.   

 

Early on Monday morning, August 16, I felt your prayers.  Then, as a compassionate nurse who has worked at Baptist Hospital for 45 years was preparing me for surgery, she took my hand and Joyce’s hand and lifted us up in a beautiful and powerful prayer for comfort and healing.  I had no doubt that I would be just fine, because I was blessed!

 

For the past two months I have been on a journey, a journey of illness, a journey of the unknown, but most of all, a journey of blessing!

 

 

The Epidemic that Saved the Nation

 In April of 1793, George Washington was just beginning his second term as President when Edmond-Charles Genet arrived in Charleston as the new French Ambassador.  “Citizen Genet” came bearing the news that King Louis XVI had been executed and France had declared war on Great Britain.   His arrival was the beginning of a tempest that would threaten the very foundation of the young nation that was still searching to find its identity. 

 

Genet was a charismatic, power-hungry, cunning, and narcissistic man who completely ignored diplomatic protocol and courtesy.  While George Washington was determined to keep the United States out of the French conflict, the impetuous Frenchman ignored the President and made direct appeals to the American people.  He was issuing demands to American ships to make war against British shipping.  He was espousing conspiracy theories designed to persuade the public to strong-arm President Washington to change policy.  

 

He knew how to fire up a crowd and by early summer of 1793 the American pot was about to boil over.  The uproar was creating a deep divide within the people and also in the government, exacerbating the already deep fissures between Washington’s Federalists and Jefferson’s Republicans.  Hundreds, and even thousands of raucous people were protesting in front of the President’s house in Philadelphia, threatening to drag Washington out of his house and start a new revolution if he did not take up the French cause.

 

Vice-President John Adams borrowed muskets from the War Department to defend his house amidst the turmoil and wrote: “I am really apprehensive that if our people cannot be persuaded to be more decent, they will draw down calamities upon our country, that will weaken us to such a degree that we shall not recover.”

As the protests grew larger and more violent, Washington, Federalists, and increasing numbers of Republicans were fearful that the protests were spiraling out of control.  The bold experiment in a Constitutional Republic was in danger of dissolving.  

Then came the Yellow Fever.  

The city of Philadelphia, the temporary seat of the Federal Government, lost over 10% of its citizens, over 5,000 died from this terrible outbreak.  It was one of the most severe and deadly epidemics in American history.  

No one knew what caused the Yellow Fever in 1793.  It is a repugnant and horrific disease. It would be over 100 years before Dr. Walter Reed would make the connection between Yellow Fever and mosquitos.  But what people did know was that they needed to flee the city to avoid the disease.  And that is what thousands did, including the entire federal government.  

Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, stayed in the city to treat the sick.  Even though he didn’t understand the causes of the disease (he thought it was bad air in the city), his presence gave hope and comfort to many.

The epidemic not only stopped the protests, but it did something else.  It unified the divided government.  Once cold weather hit, the Yellow Fever disappeared because the mosquitos were gone.   But the life and death struggle of the virus and the time away from Philadelphia gave all government leaders time to reflect on what was truly important.  When Congress did meet again in December, there was a different attitude of respect and trust.  

Years later John Adams reflected on the events of 1793 and wrote to Thomas Jefferson, “The coolest and firmest minds have given their opinions to me, that nothing but the Yellow Fever could have saved the United States from a total revolution of government.”

Did the Yellow Favor save our nation?  Well, if it didn’t save our nation it certainly was a wake-up call for a country that was in danger of falling apart due to intense polarization.  Dr. James Roger Sharp, Professor Emeritus in History from Syracuse University makes this observation:

“This polarization, in 1793 as well as today, rejects one essential aspect of a democratic society: a belief in the legitimacy of a loyal opposition. To view one’s opponents as disloyal and not to be trusted eats at the very heart of a representative republic. There must be an underlying consensus between the major parties that despite differences, major and minor, there is an acceptance of your opponent as ultimately loyal and supportive of the Constitution and the republic. Without this acceptance, the traditional two-party system that we are accustomed to cannot function.”

On the façade of the National Archives in Washington, D.C. are the inscribed words: “The Past is Prologue.”  It is so very true.