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.

 

 

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.