Joyce's Pecan Pie

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was enough just to attend these fine outdoor feasts.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

If I had Found the Box, I Might Have Found My Father

 

This is a Father's Day Post from 2015.  

 I wish I could call my father on Father’s Day and tell him what a great dad he was. Daddy died in 1998.  Like King David, he was a man after God’s own heart.  A respected church and civic leader, my father was a man to be admired.  But also like King David, my father was a flawed man and sadly, that was all I could see in his last years.  

        When I was ordained in 1977 I asked the man I admired the most to speak at the service—my father.  He had always been a leader in the church and was a good public speaker.  I remember Daddy being the speaker on “Men’s Day” when I was a child.  He told a story about taking the family to the State Fair and somehow in the big crowd he lost me.  He said when we are lost God always comes searching for us and he described the great joy in finding his son and holding him in his arms. I remember it well and can still recall the fear of being lost as well as the elation of seeing my father.  

        I had a wonderful, happy childhood.  Daddy was everything a father is supposed to be.  But after I left home to go to school everything changed.

         We all have flaws and demons are relentlessly lurking in the shadows.  The demon of alcoholism invaded my father and suddenly I didn’t know him anymore.  I was devastated and felt betrayed.  My father was lost and that was when I made a tragic mistake.  I did not try to find him.  

        After Daddy died, I went to my childhood home to clean out the attic.  The attic in our home was not designed for storage, but that is what had happened. There is one opening through the ceiling of the garage that is only accessible with a tall ladder.  When I entered the attic it was like stepping back in time.  Toys from our childhood, gadgets of every kind, and even an old aluminum Christmas tree filled the crowded space.  As I was carefully removing everything I saw a lone, isolated box at the far end. It was obvious that it had been placed far away from everything else.  I decided to wait and remove the box last.  What was it?  Why was it placed in such an inaccessible place?  There had to be a reason.

        After several days I made my last trip up the ladder and carefully brought the box down.  I opened it to reveal an olive green US Army coat.  I carefully laid the coat on the back patio as it saw the sunlight for the first time in decades.  It still had my father’s Master Sergeant  insignia on the sleeves.  

        Daddy served in the Korean War.  Like most veterans he didn’t talk about it.  He always said he didn’t see much action.  But when I found that box and opened it I realized that it contained much more than just an old army coat. 

        So often in life we only see someone’s faults and failures.  We can’t find the real person because they are lost.  The key to finding them is discovering the reason they strayed.  It is often an experience that was too overwhelming, too devastating for them to deal with.  War has destroyed many lives.  So has betrayal, a devastating trauma, a broken relationship, or the death of someone we love.  

        My father and I still had a cordial relationship, but it was not the same.  Then he became ill.  He called me one day and asked me to speak at his funeral.  I made a visit to see him and for the first time in years he was my daddy again.  I realized as I walked out of the door that he had always been there, but I had not worked hard enough to find him.  It was the last time I ever saw him.

        I wish I had searched for my father the way he searched for me.  I wish I had found the box sooner.  If I had found the box, I might have found my father.  If I had found my father I would have experienced the same joy I had as a child when my father found me and held me in his arms.  

Divinely Ordained in the Stars

   October 16, 1977 is a watershed date for me.  That was the day I preached a “Trial Sermon” at the Pollocksville Baptist Church.  

 

The little Eastern North Carolina church was full that Sunday and the atmosphere was electric.  “Biggest crowd we’ve had in years,” people said. 

 

I felt the excitement and the warm welcome from this loving congregation.  Following the worship service, we had a covered dish meal.  The food was delicious although I barely had time to eat.  People wanted to meet me, to talk to me, to welcome me.  I remember a very expectant mother telling me her baby was due any day now.  She gave birth to a little boy the next day.  

 

I also remember a young lady who said, “Hello, my name is Joyce, and this is my husband, Ernie.”  And I remember a little girl named Paula Lynn asking me if I was going to be their next “teacher.”  

 

Even though the church would not vote on me until the next Sunday, it seemed like a formality.  I sensed an immediate connection with those folks, they felt like family.  And I think they felt the same about me.  

 

I should have expected people to be matchmakers.  That’s what they do with a young, single preacher.  A couple of years before, I had preached a revival up on Sand Mountain in Alabama.  Each night of the revival a different family invited me for dinner, and each family had an unmarried daughter about my age.  They would make sure I would sit beside their lovely daughter at the meal.  It seems that all of these young ladies had recently received a calling to be a preacher’s wife. But when I left Sand Mountain, I was still a single man.  

 

As it turned out, a member of the Pollocksville search committee also had an unmarried daughter about my age, but she didn’t tell me about it.  She was insistent though that I stay with them until I could get some furniture in the parsonage.  

 

I discovered that they had a daughter early one morning.  It was still dark and I was walking across the hallway to the bathroom.  We were both in our pajamas.  Talk about awkward!

 

Finding a wife was definitely not part of my plan.  But God had a different plan. As the English poet William Cowper wrote, “God moves in a mysterious way.”

 

The Pollocksville Baptist Church voted unanimously to call me as their pastor on October 23, 1977.  When the committee chair called to tell me the good news, he said, “We have had a tragedy.”  

 

On Monday, October 17, the day after my trial sermon, Ernie Koonce took his small boat out on the Trent River.  It was the first day of hunting season.  It was his wife, Joyce, who had introduced me to Ernie at the church.  Ernie never came home.  By the time I heard about the unanimous vote, Ernie had been missing for six days.  

 

The next day I drove to Pollocksville.  I will never forget walking into Joyce’s home and seeing her standing in the hallway.  The stress of the last week was clearly visible.  She walked up to me and instinctively we hugged.  Then she said, “When they find his body, will you preach his funeral?”

 

I preached Ernie’s funeral the day before I preached my first sermon as pastor.  

 

My heart went out to Joyce and her children.  The entire church, the entire community were heartbroken.  I checked on her frequently to see how she was holding up.  Was there anything I could do to help?

 

I can’t tell you exactly when it happened, when my feelings for Joyce became more than just pastoral concern.  I don’t think it happened suddenly, it was gradual, but it was happening.  Joyce felt it too.  By late November she told me that I had done my duty as her pastor.  She was politely telling me not to see her anymore.  

 

But a couple of weeks later, Paula Lynn found me at church on Sunday morning.   “We are putting our Christmas tree up today,” she said.  “Why don’t you come and help us?”

 

When I showed up at the door, Joyce said, “What are you doing here?  I thought I told you that you had done your duty as pastor.”

 

But a little voice behind her said, “But Momma, I invited him.”   

 

It didn’t take people in the church long to realize that something was going on.  News travels fast in a small town.  

 

Christmas was on a Sunday that year.  I planned to leave after church and drive home to Alabama.  Before I left, Joyce and I talked.  The committee member, in whose house I had been staying, told me that I should not see Joyce anymore.  

 

“People are talking,” I said to Joyce.  “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”  

 

That was a lonely Christmas Day.  I made the long drive to Atlanta and then turned west into Alabama.  I could not get Joyce off of my mind.  I stopped in Anniston to spend the night.  Late that Christmas night, I called Joyce.  

 

“I know what we said, but I can’t stop thinking about you.  I don’t want us to stop seeing each other.  I think I love you.”  

 

Things moved fast after Christmas and by now, everyone was talking!  Joyce’s father came storming into her house one day and said, “Do you know everybody in town is talking about you?  Why can’t you find somebody to date besides the damn preacher!”

 

One day the chair of the deacons came to see me.  “People are complaining,” he said. 

 

“About what?”

 

“They say that when they try to call you, you are never home.”  

 

I talked to the telephone company and they installed this neat device on my phone.  If I was going to see Joyce, I could switch the call so it would ring at Joyce’s house.  Most of the time when I would answer the phone at her house, they would hang up. But there were no more complaints about not being able to get in touch with me.

 

Many of the men in Pollocksville would gather at Clifton’s gas station on a Saturday night.  They would drink and gossip.  Joyce’s father walked in one Saturday night just in time to hear the father of the unmarried girl in her pajamas tell the guys that they had planned for me to marry their daughter, but Joyce had messed everything up by “going after the preacher.” 

 

By the way, I did marry their daughter.  It was a few years later.  I performed her wedding!

 

On Valentine’s Day, 1978, I gave Joyce a small necklace.  I told her that I could not afford a ring just yet, but I wanted her to marry me.  She immediately said it was too early.

 

I agreed, but said when the time was right, I wanted her to be my wife.  

 

She said yes.

 

We thought the talk would die down, but it did not.  It was becoming a major distraction.  Joyce’s birthday, April 9, was on a Sunday.  I decided to address the congregation.

 

I told them that I wanted to share something personal.  I said, “You called me to be your pastor and you are free to ask me to leave.  You all know that Joyce and I are seeing each other.  We think we love each other.  We would like to ask for your understanding as we seek God’s will for our lives.”  

 

That was the day that everything changed.  The talk slowed down.  For the most part, people moved on.  But the committee member with the daughter, the one in the pajamas, did not.  She cornered Joyce after church that Sunday and told her that she did not come from the right family to be marrying a preacher. She was not “good enough” to marry me.  Her words hurt.  Joyce never forgot them.  

 

I knew that it was time for us to decide if we wanted to marry or not.  Well-meaning people were telling me that I was making a big mistake, that I just felt sorry for Joyce.  I felt the need to talk to someone who was wise and trustworthy to give me some good counsel.  

 

Dr. Theodore Adams was one of the most distinguished and respected men in Baptist life.  He served as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Richmond, Virginia from 1936 to 1968.  He served as President of the Baptist World Alliance.  He had been on the cover of Time magazine. In 1978, he was serving as a Visiting Professor at Southeastern Seminary.  

 

He was kind and compassionate, a grandfatherly figure.  I made an appointment to meet with the great Dr. Adams.

 

I told him the whole story, about Joyce’s tragedy and how I had become very close to her.  I also told him about the uproar in the church and that I had even addressed it from the pulpit.  I listed all the reasons people were telling me that I should not marry Joyce.  She was seven years older.  She had three children.  She didn’t have the education that I had.  I was just feeling sorry for her.  

 

When I finished, the kindly Dr. Adams looked at me with an understanding smile and said, “Well, son do you love her?”

 

“Yes,” I said.  “I really do love her.”

 

“Well, what is stopping you?”

 

“But Dr. Adams, you know she is seven years older than me.”

 

At that he laughed a hearty laugh and said, “My mother was 10 years older than my father.  They had a remarkable love story, and you will too.”

 

I felt like I was walking on air when I left Dr. Adams’s office.  That appointment had been planned, but what happened next was an unplanned, serendipitous blessing.

 

Dr. John Carlton was our genteel, silver-haired Homiletics Professor.  His very presence exuded wisdom and decorum.  He spoke with a Shakespearean voice; his language was poetic and imaginative.  To hear him read from the King James Bible was to hear the Scripture sing.  

 

I shared the story and my visit with Dr. Adams.  Dr. Carlton listened with intensity.  I will never forget his response.

 

He had a habit of crossing his left arm over his chest, with his left hand cupping the elbow of his right arm.  He would take his index finger of his right hand to make an important point, or in this case, a proclamation.  

 

“Raaay,” he said with his melodious tone.  “This was divinely ordained in the stars.”  

 

A Papal Blessing could not have been more powerful.  

 

On Monday night, August 7, 1978, Paula Lynn, Della, and Knight walked us down the aisle of the Pollocksville Baptist Church.  When Rev. Donald Myers asked, “Who gives Joyce to be married to Ray,” Paula Lynn answered “I do.”  Then Della said “I do,” and Knight said “I do.”  

 

We were married on a Monday night because the deacons refused to give me another Sunday of vacation, even though it was my wedding.   But that was okay.  Seven was our special number and we were married on August 7 at 7 p.m.  

 

Dr. Adams was right, ours became a remarkable love story. Joyce wanted me to write a book about it . . .  maybe I will.

 

I used to tell Joyce that on average, women outlive men by seven years.  That means that we will both die at the same time.  But then came dementia.

 

As we neared the end, there were many things that Joyce had lost.  But whenever someone would ask Joyce how she was doing, she would look at me and say, “Tell them how many years we have been married!”

 

Joyce was my best friend.  She passed away at the Hospice House 48 years to the day I asked her to marry me, Valentine’s Day.  

When we celebrated Joyce's life at a packed First Baptist Church, Paula Lynn walked beside me into the sanctuary, just as she had 48 years before.  Della and Knight walked with us too, along with my two sons-in-law and my five grandchildren.  

 

They said our marriage would not last.  They said I just felt sorry for Joyce.  They pointed out that Joyce was seven years older and had three children.  But Joyce and I enjoyed over 47 years being husband and wife. We never stopped loving each other.  Of course we didn’t, because it was divinely ordained in the stars.  

 

 

 

Our Final Trip

 Joyce and I loved to travel.  We were blessed to take many wonderful trips through the years.  We traveled to the Holy Land seven times.  Twice we followed Paul’s journeys through Greece and Turkey.  We cruised the Baltic, the Mediterranean, the Aegean Sea, the Ionian Sea, the Adriatic Sea, the Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean, the Pacific, and the inland passage of Alaska.  We visited England, Ireland, Scotland, Spain, France, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Russia, Estonia, Czechia, Poland, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, and even Liechtenstein. We have been to Canada, Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala.

 

We had planned to travel more when I retired, but I am so thankful we traveled when we were able. And we took most all of these trips with church members and friends creating memories that will last a lifetime.  We have been blessed.

 

Our favorite country to visit was Italy.  We made four trips to the Torraccia di Chiusi, our beloved farmhouse in Tuscany outside of San Gimignano.  Maria, Bruno, Stefano, Donatella, Maritza and the staff are like family.  When they heard that Joyce had passed away, they lit candles in the chapel for her. Maria emailed me that Joyce “is an angel with other angels now.”  I was deeply moved when I heard about their tribute.  

 

Even with Joyce’s dementia we continued to travel.  On the last trip we made to the Holy Land in 2023, it was evident Joyce was having issues. We made a final trip to Greece and Turkey in 2024 and that fall we did a Mediterranean Cruise with our daughter, Lynn, and son-in-law, Roger.  But I knew we would not be traveling overseas anymore. 

 

There was one big domestic trip that I had been planning for a long time and I felt like Joyce would be able to go.  She was always agreeable to my crazy travel adventures.  The destination was the Willamette Valley in Oregon, a gorgeous valley that reminds you of Tuscany and one of the premier wine producers in the US.  Our friends, Robert and Martha Adams, made that journey and they returned with great enthusiasm, telling us that we must visit the Willamette Valley.  

 

They told us that one reason the trip was so memorable was because of their gifted wine guide, Holly Kirby.  Holly operates Serendipity Wine Tours.  I emailed her well over a year in advance of our visit, and we reserved some dates in early May, 2025.  I also told Holly that Joyce had dementia.  She responded immediately with compassion and sensitivity.  She said that she would design our visit to make it easy on Joyce and to also make her feel special.

 

I know that most people would fly to Portland and start their visit there.  But there was one thing I had wanted to do for a long time.  I wanted to take the train from Chicago to the West Coast.  Joyce had no problem with that.  As soon as reservations became available, I booked our trip on the Empire Builder from Chicago to Portland.  

Something was telling me that this might be our last big trip.  I was determined to make it as memorable as possible for Joyce.  I booked first class air tickets and we had a bedroom on the train.  After much research, I booked a suite at the Black Walnut Inn & Vineyard in the middle of the valley.  

 

We had a mid-morning flight from Charlotte to Chicago on United Airlines.  Rather than having to leave home early and fight the Charlotte morning traffic, I decided to stay the night before at the Sheraton beside the airport.  At 3 o’clock in the morning, Joyce was waking me up telling me that we needed to get ready to go to the airport.  I tried to get her to go back to sleep, but she was wide awake.  We ate breakfast at the hotel and then rode over to the airport, arriving in plenty of time.  

 

The flight was nice and uneventful. In the Uber on the way to the hotel, my phone rang.  It was my friend, Lee Jessup.  Lee was calling me to tell me that he had placed his wife, Mary Jo, in Memory Care.  Lee and I were walking down the same painful path with our wives.  Mary Jo’s dementia was more advanced than Joyce’s, but Joyce was not far behind.  As Lee was talking, I realized that it would not be long before I would have to make that same decision.  I did a few months later, and for the short time Joyce was in Memory Care, she and Mary Jo were roommates.  

 

Joyce and I went to an old-school Chicago Steakhouse that night and we both were ready for a good night’s sleep before catching the Empire Builder the next day.  

 

Joyce loved the train!  Even though we had to walk several cars to get the dining car, she never complained.  We both had the best time and met a lot of great people.  When we arrived in Portland, I took a picture of Joyce stepping off the train with an Amtrak employee helping her on either side.  In the picture, Joyce is smiling and seems so happy.  I sent the picture to Martha Adams who responded, “she looks like the Queen.”  That is exactly how they made her feel.  

 

 

 

We spent one night in Portland before renting a car and driving down to Dundee, Oregon to the Black Walnut Inn.  It was as luxurious as advertised!   

 

The next morning, Holly came to pick us up for our first wine tour.  There was an immediate connection.  Holly hugged Joyce and told her how happy she was to finally meet her.  It was like they were old friends. 

 

 

We rode in Holly’s very comfortable Suburban.  She had chilled water in the back with our names on the bottles.  Holly had even asked me what type of music we like to listen to.  She left no stone unturned.  

 

We visited three wineries.  It was evident that Holly had informed the wineries of Joyce’s condition.  They treated her with much kindness and great dignity.  We had private tastings.  They put Joyce at ease and I could tell she was having a great time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two days later Holly picked us up for our second day of touring.  The most memorable experience was at the Anacreon Winery. This family vineyard is owned by Danell and Kip Myers, a lovely and fascinating couple.  

We had a private meal in the beautiful home of our hosts.  They had a chef in the kitchen who carefully prepared the delicious courses, just for us. Kip was in the dining room with us, pouring the wine, explaining the pairings. We started with Asiago grits, Morel Mushrooms, Red Pepper Purée, topped with Chives.  This was followed by a Pan Seared Endive Salad with a special house honey vinaigrette.  Both of these courses were paired with a Rose and a Chardonnay.  

 

Then we moved to the red wine, the prized Pinot Noir.  We had crispy shallot house duck prosciutto with confit potatoes.  This was followed by an Oregon Black Truffle Ribeye.  The final Pinot Noir was paired with a Fromage Blanc Chocolate Tart.  

 

Kip was the perfect host. He quickly found out that I am a minister, and he openly talked about his faith.  The conversation was easy and edifying. It was an experience I will never forget.

 

We had two more wonderful stops that day, both with private tastings.   

 

I thanked Holly for her kindness.  She had made our visit so very special for Joyce.  As I said goodbye to Holly, I had this nagging feeling that it was our last journey.   

 

The next morning, we left the beautiful Black Walnut Inn and drove to Portland where we caught a train to Seattle.  We spent two nights there before returning home.  It was in Seattle for the first time that Joyce told me she wanted to go home. 

 

We had a non-stop flight back to Charlotte.  Joyce became very anxious on the flight.  She kept asking me how we would get home.  When I told her that we would take a shuttle to get our car, she told me that they had sold our car.  She was very concerned.  I tried to tell her not to worry.  I told her that I would call Ray Nance and he would pick us up.  But as her anxiety increased, I knew that we would never travel again.  

 

After Joyce passed away, I thought several times about emailing Holly to let her know.  I was always busy with something else, but the other day I finally emailed her.  I wanted to thank her for her kindness, for making Joyce’s last trip a memorable one.  

 

Holly immediately responded.   She told me that she cried when she saw my email.  Then she sent a beautiful tribute to Joyce that I want to share with you.  

 

Holly blessed our lives.  Joyce blessed her life.  Even in her dementia, Joyce was able to bless the lives of others.  

 

I look back on our final trip with great memories.  Thank you, Holly.  You made those memories even more special.  Here is the link to Holly’s tribute:

 

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DY42k5NuNvr/?igsh=MTgyMXZyMDc2Y2VlNQ==

 

 

I Refuse to Relinquish My Loss

 My experience with the collards told me that I have a long way to go with my grief.  Just when I thought I was doing fairly well, I was rudely sent back to square one.  I knew I had a few books in my library on grief, and the next day I found them.

 

One was a little book by Hardy Clemmons titled: “Saying Goodbye to Your Grief.”  I scanned it to see if it would help.  I quickly determined that it would not. 

 

Hardy’s book (and I have a signed copy and I really like Hardy) is too simple, too easy, too neat . . . grief is complicated; it’s hard and messy.  

Hardy said that as soon as you accept, grieve, and relinquish your loss, you are on the way to a new life.  

 

Here is what I have to say about that . . . 

 

I have no trouble accepting my loss.  I have said many times that God was merciful. Joyce’s death was in many ways a blessing.  She had no quality of life and we knew she would only get worse, not better.  When death came I told her, “Honey, you don’t have dementia anymore.”  She was healed.  She was whole.  She was fulfilled in every way.  

 

But knowing all of that does not diminish my grief.  I lost my wife of 48 years.  My best friend, my companion, my partner in ministry and in life was gone.  

“As soon as I grieve?”   I have been grieving for a long time, even before she breathed her last.  In many ways, I lost Joyce a long time ago.  Grief has been long and complicated by dementia.  Yes Hardy, my grief is real.

 

But then Hardy said that I must “relinquish my loss.”  This is where I have a problem.

 

We are not good in knowing what to say at a time of death.  I have often told people that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all.  There are times when a hug is all that is needed.  But people feel the need to say something.

 

People often say that they are praying that the void can be filled, but that is just wrong. The void that I feel represents Joyce.  I don’t want anything to fill it, to replace it.  I want it to remain.  No one, nothing, can take her place.

 

People often say something along the lines of praying that one can find peace in the midst of grief.  But death is incompatible with peace.  Death is the enemy of peace.

 

Years ago, when I was on the Rescue Squad, we responded to an emergency call one day.  A man who seemed to be in good health had suddenly collapsed.  We quickly determined that he was not breathing and we started CPR.  We tried everything but we could not save him.  When I told his wife that he was gone, she responded very stoically, “I’m at peace because I know he is with the Lord.”

 

I know that Joyce is also with the Lord, but I am not at peace.  My life has been shattered, my whole world has been turned upside down.  I really don’t think the lady who lost her husband to a sudden heart attack was at peace either.  She said what she thought she was supposed to say, but in the midst of death, there can be no peace.  

 

One does not have to find peace to continue with life.  I know that my life will be very different, it will never be the same as it was before.  I have been wounded by death and I will allow that wound to stay open, because it will make me a better person, a better minister, a better friend.  

 

I have often said that working in a funeral home in college and seminary made me a better minister.  I was working with people who were experiencing the grief of losing a dear loved one. I learned what to do, how to respond, what to say . . . but maybe more importantly, I learned not what to do and what should not be said.  

 

When I worked at the funeral home I could sympathize with people who were grieving, but I could not understand what they were going through . . . I could not empathize with them.  

 

Now I know what it is to grieve.  Now I understand. When I would speak to grieving families before, I said what I had been trained to say.  I knew the right words.  But now I can speak from experience, I can speak from my heart.  My loss has bonded me to all who mourn. 

I will not relinquish my loss for that loss has redefined me.  I am now a wounded healer who is much better equipped to walk beside those who are also wounded.  

 

I refuse to relinquish my loss, for to do so is to separate myself from my wife who was my soulmate, my companion, my best friend.  I will never let her go.  And that is okay . . . . I can carry her with me into a new life.

 

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.