Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

 Do you remember “A Prairie Home Companion,” a radio show on NPR?  It was created and hosted by Garrison Keillor.  Every Saturday night, the folksy show would entertain with music and comedy, with an old-time radio flavor. 

 

The highlight of the show was Keillor’s weekly monologue “News from Lake Wobegon,” a fictional Minnesota town “where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.”

 

I found myself not wanting to miss the show, especially the monologue.  Keillor was a masterful storyteller.  I would be mesmerized by his words as the story came alive, often bringing laughter and even tears.  

 

I thought . . . if I can be captivated by a story, why not try this in church.  Jesus was a storyteller.  The parables are brilliant stories.  I decided that I would try this my church, Roxboro Baptist.  Instead of a sermon, I decided to sit on a stool and tell a story.  I created a fictitious town named Riverdale, a "wonderful town where people care and life is, usually, fair.”  

 

I didn’t know how it would be received, but people loved it.  

 

I brought Riverdale to Lexington.  My first Riverdale Narrative was on Mother’s Day in 1990.  

 

I had not done a Riverdale Narrative since Joyce’s death.  Several people had asked me when I was going to share a Riverdale narrative.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t feel the inspiration.  

 

But one night I saw Brannon Gilliam.  Brannon would often play and sing for my Riverdale narratives.  The song always complimented the story.  

 

I told Brannon I needed some inspiration for a Riverdale story.  He said he would sing and we agreed on “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”  That was the inspiration I needed.  Over several weeks, I crafted the story.

 

People assume the story is fiction.  Technically, yes; but it is always based on real life experience.   

 

A critical moment in the story you are about to read is when Kenny Boster is killed on his 16^th birthday.  I changed the name, but this happened to a friend of mine who was a great leader among the youth in our church.  I will never forget that tragic day.

 

I hope you will enjoy, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”

 

It’s a beautiful morning in Riverdale, that wonderful town where people care and life is, usually, fair.  

 

Maude and Agnes are sitting at their usual booth at Gower’s Drugs, Maude sipping on her large glass of chocolate milk, that luxury she never had as a child.  

 

They were discussing the preacher’s sermon the day before. Maude had not been impressed.  

 

“I think he got confused,” Maude said.  “I don’t have any idea what he was trying to say.”

 

“The reason he sounded confused,” Agnes chirped, “Is because Maude you were not paying attention.  You couldn’t take your eyes off of that awful hat that Geraldine wore to church.”

 

“It was awful,” Maude said.  “Ladies don’t wear hats very often these days, so if you do wear one make sure it is decent.  An Ostrich gave his feathers for that hat.”

 

“I don’t think it was an Ostrich,” said Agnes.   “An Ostrich feather would be huge.”

 

 

Their conversation on Ostrich feathers was interrupted by the bell jingling over the door.  They stopped talking when they saw the undertaker, Kermit Langley, walking through the door.  Kermit was the owner and founder of Langley and Sons Funeral Home.  

 

They knew immediately that someone important had died.  

 

Normally, Kermit did not venture downtown in the mornings, but when there was a death during the night, especially a prominent death, Kermit would make his rounds to Gowers Drugs, Clark and Harvey, Long’s Hardware, Timmy’s Barbershop, Grace’s Beauty Shop, and the Oak Tree Cleaners to share the sad tidings. 

 

When he saw Maude and Agnes, he removed his worn Fedora and said, “Good morning Ladies.  We lost our friend, Brother Dietrich last night.”  

 

“Oh my goodness,” said Maude.  “That is so sad. And what a shock”

 

“I feel sorry for Marvin,” Agnes said.  “They were like brothers. And his wife just died.”

 

“Six months to the day,” Kermit said somberly.  He could have told them the hour and minute of her passing if they had inquired.  

                  

Maude added, “I guess the circle is finally broken.”

 

The boys were ten-years-old when Dietrich moved to town.

 

“What’s your name?” asked Marvin.

 

“Dietrich Johannson.”

 

“That’s a funny name,” Marvin observed.

 

“You can just call me, DJ.”

 

And DJ it was.  

 

Marvin’s family lived on an old farm just outside of Riverdale.  The farm had been Marvin’s grandparents.  His father didn’t want to farm and he leased the land.  He ran an Insurance Agency in town.  Marvin invited DJ to come out to the farm one night.  

 

“Bring your sleeping bag,” he said.  “We will camp out.”  

 

There was an old barn behind the house and an open field.  Marvin asked his parents if he could build a fire in the field, and they said he could.  Marvin and DJ became fast friends that night.  They stayed up late and talked as the fire slowly burned down and then became embers. 

 

They decided to form a club.  A club needed a name and they finally settled on “The Circle.”  But a circle needed more than two people, so they said they would invite some friends to join.  Before long there were 6, 7, 8 boys who were gather around the fire, usually on a Friday night.  There was Ronald “Tidmoe Connell,” Ricky “High Who” Buckaloo, Sammy “Jeepers,” Texas Pete and some others.

 

Every time someone new came and joined the circle, they had to pledge to keep the circle unbroken.  

 

One day a war veteran came to their school and talked.  He had been a POW and you could have heard a pin drop while he spoke.  After he told about his terrible ordeal, he said to the students, “Every person in life is either a builder or a destroyer.”  “You either make the world better, or you tear it down.”  He challenged the young people to be builders. 

 

That night as the circle met around the fire, the boys talked about the veteran’s speech.  They made a commitment, that they would be builders.  

 

The circle continued to meet.  Things stayed about the same until Kenny Boster came one night.  They all knew Kenny, he was a BMOC . . . a big man on campus.  He was a year older than most of the boys, but he fit right in the Circle.

 

The second time Kenny came, he challenged the other boys.  He said, “I know we are all builders.  We want to make things better.  But you can’t build unless you have a solid foundation.  And that solid foundation is faith, it’s Jesus.  

 

All of the boys went to church, but Kenny was calling them to a deeper level of commitment.  Kenny was the leader.  The boys started to study the Bible.  They started to find ways to help others in Jesus name.  And the Circle continued to grow, it was not unbroken.  

 

Kenny would be the first one in the group to turn 16 and he was planning to be at the Driver’s License office the minute it opened on his birthday.  He said, “I think when we get our licenses, we should start bringing people to church. There are old ladies who can’t drive anymore.  We can pick them up and bring them to church.”  Kenny always had great ideas.

 

His birthday was on a Friday.  There was a big football game that night.  Then the Circle was meeting out at Marvin’s around a big fire after the game.  

 

Kenny was late getting to school because he had just gotten his license. He was so proud, showing everybody his license. The boys were envious and couldn’t wait until they were able to get their own license. 

 

When school was out, Kenny almost ran to the parking lot to jump in his car and speed away.  All the boys promised to meet at the stadium for the game.  

 

The game had just started when the word started to filter into the stadium, then it spread like wildfire.  There had been an accident.  Kenny was driving too fast.  He had been killed instantly.  

 

A pall settled over the stadium.  Most of the students left.  Slowly, the boys started to gather behind the barn.  

 

There was anger, many tears, so many questions, so much confusion.  Kenny was their leader, he was the best Christian, the best person they had ever known.  Why did God take Kenny?  How could this happen?  

 

Things were never the same after Kenny died.  One by one, the circle was beginning to break.  Some of the boys had girlfriends, others just lost interest, they all had jobs, they were making big plans for the future.  Finally, it was just DJ and Marvin again.  

 

The night of High School Graduation the two fast friends met behind the barn for the last time.  DJ was going to Danville, Virginia, to Averett College, Marvin was going to UNC Charlotte.

 

We had some good times, Marvin said.  We always said the circle would be unbroken . . . but it was, and now it really is.  

 

DJ was silent for a long time.  

 

“Maybe,” he finally said.  “But maybe not.”

 

They both met girls in college.  DJ married first.  Of course, Marvin was in the wedding.  His wife Karen was from Roanoke and her father ran a big hardware store.  He offered DJ a job.

 

Marvin went to work for his father in the insurance business.  He and Sally married and DJ came back for the wedding.  

 

They stayed in touch for several years, but both were raising families, busy in their own communities.  Marvin’s parents eventually passed away and he and Sally moved into their home.  The old barn was still there and Marvin would sometimes think about the Circle and the bonfires at night.  

 

Marvin was nearing 70.  He still went into work a couple of times a week, but he was slowing down.  Then Sally was diagnosed with cancer.  For a long year they struggled, going through agonizing treatments . . . finally she passed away.  It was just Marvin.

 

But one day the phone rang.  It was his old friend, DJ.   He was calling to tell him that he was moving back to Riverdale.  Karen had passed away rather suddenly.  None of his children lived close by.  He wanted to come home.

 

The two old friends were so happy to be reunited, and since they both had lost their wives, they really needed each other. 

 

“Do you ever think about the circle?” DJ asked one day.  “All of the time,” Marvin said.  “Those were the good old days.”

 

“Do you ever think about starting it back?”  

 

“I’m not going to sleep in a sleeping bag,” Marvin said.

 

“I’m not talking about spending the night.  You have a gas fire pit, don’t you? Tell everybody to bring a chair, and let’s get the circle going again.”

 

They invited the guys in their Sunday School class and put the word out down at Gower’s drugs and Timmy’s Barber Shop.  

 

Six guys showed up the first night.  They would meet early in the evening and by 9 o’clock they were all gone, but still, the circle was back.  

 

They didn’t meet that often, around once a month.  They never had more than 5 or 6, but the circle was back and they said they would keep it unbroken.  

 

But then, one by one, they dropped out for different reasons, usually health related.  Once again, it was just Marvin and DJ.  

 

“We always said, we would never break the circle,” DJ said.  “Even though we missed a lot of years, and it’s just me and you, the circle is still unbroken old friend, still unbroken.”  

DJ said he had a headache that night.  And he went home early.  It was the next morning when the undertaker informed the ladies that “We lost Brother Dietrich last night.”

 

The night after the funeral, Marvin could not sleep.  He had lost his wife, now he lost his best friend.   Around midnight, he went outside and turned on the fire pit.  

 

It was a beautiful night; the sky was full of stars.   

He was thinking about the night after their high school graduation, when he said, “I guess the circle is finally broken.”  And DJ said, “Maybe, but maybe not.” 

 

He looked up into the sky and thought about that beautiful Psalm, “When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers.  The moon and stars which thou hast ordained, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?”

 

Will the circle be unbroken
       By and by Lord, by and by
              There's a better home awaiting
                      In the sky Lord, in the sky.

                             There's a better home awaiting
                                    In the sky Lord, in the sky...

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Final Newspaper Column

 I wrote a religion column for the Dispatch for almost 30 years. When informed that the paper was eliminating my column along with other local writers, I asked for the courtesy of writing a final column, but initially was told that would not be possible. But, they did have a change of heart and we were at least given the opportunity to say goodbye.  I recently came across my final newspaper column:

For over a quarter of a century it has been a rare privilege and a great joy to share my thoughts and reflections with you through the pages of The Dispatch.  It was almost 30 years ago when a young Dispatch reporter by the name of Chad Killebrew stepped into my office on a Sunday morning.  He explained that Dr. Lee Jessup, who had written a weekly religion column for a number of years, was leaving First Reformed and while he would continue to write a weekly column, the paper wanted to find new writers for the religion column.  Chad asked me if I would be one of those writers.

 

I hesitated for two reasons.  One, Lee Jessup was legendary in Lexington and I knew no one could replace him.  Indeed, it took four of us to take his place! Secondly, I never really saw myself as a writer, but since the commitment was once every four weeks instead of weekly, I agreed.  I soon found myself enjoying the opportunity to reach into your hearts and homes each month through Saturday’s religion column.  

 

I have written almost 400 columns and I’m proud to say that I never missed a deadline.  (I almost missed one a few years ago, but Jill Doss-Raines emailed me when she didn’t see my column by Wednesday).   Many of my columns have been serious, many have been light-hearted.  Some have just been downright crazy!  (Does anyone remember “Joe, Mary, the Baby and the Mall?)  

 

It has been my privilege to walk with you during times of crisis: The Y2K scare, 9/11, the close of our furniture plants and textile mills, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and most recently, the COVID Pandemic.  I have shared Lexington history with you and I will always appreciate Editor Bob Stiff endorsing my proposal for our community to promote Lexington as the first Lexington named after the “shot heard round the world.”  (We were, you know.  I can prove it!)  

 

I have reflected on community events:  the BBQ Festival, the Davidson County Fair, Kamp Kiwanis, American Legion Baseball, MLK Celebrations, the Palm Sunday Community Celebration and more.  Together we have shared holidays, the changing of the seasons, and our mutual losses.  I have written about the deaths of my father, my mother, my brother, my sister, and my beloved dog, “Little Buddy.” 

 

I’ve had a wonderful relationship with The Dispatch and all of the staff.  I remember the old days when I would hand deliver a printed copy of my article.  It was always exciting to walk up those stairs and hear the buzz of the newsroom in action!  I will never forget meeting with Joe Sink in 1999 and asking if The Dispatch would sponsor our New Year’s Eve production at the Civic Center, “False Alarm at Midnight.”  I didn’t really know Joe and I was scared to death.  Joe not only graciously supported our effort, but Joe and Libby became good friends and we traveled together several times. 

In 2003 The Dispatch provided the funding for the first MLK Worship Celebration to be held in a white church—First Baptist on West Third.  The Dispatch also generously sponsored the highly successful 175^th Historical Celebration at the Civic Center that Evelyn Harris and I produced and directed.  

 

Your comments, your encouragement, your words of affirmation have meant the world to me.  It was always a blessing to meet someone in the community who told me they appreciated my columns.  Now, I’ve had a few detractors along the way.   Remember the “Bricks and Bouquets?”  I had several bricks hurled my way as well as a number of letters to the editor.  That comes with the territory.

 

But now that my final column is coming to a close, I will leave you with a word that I hope has been evident in every one of my 400 columns—kindness.   We are all children of God, we are all equal in the eyes of God.  We must respect all people and most of all, be kind.  There is something more important than being right and that is being kind.  Kindness is a gift.  Kindness is a blessing.  Kindness will not just make a difference in this world, it will transform it.  

 

Farewell, my friends.  Be kind one to another.  

The Greatest Generation

 

A few years ago, Joyce and I decided to go on a Mississippi River Cruise.  We had been on several European River Cruises and loved every minute.  Why not do the Mississippi?

We signed up with Viking for a cruise that was scheduled for October of 2026.  We would depart from New Orleans and cruise to Memphis.  Joyce loved Elvis and was excited about going to Graceland.

 

We knew that our son, Ray Nance, and his wife, Sang, loved New Orleans.  They had joined us at Pinocchio’s, our favorite Italian Restaurant, to celebrate Joyce’s birthday.  We were talking about the cruise and said, “Why don’t you come to New Orleans with us?”  We can spend a couple of days together, then we will get on the boat and you can fly back home.”  

 

As time passed, Joyce’s condition was deteriorating. I knew our traveling days were over, so I canceled the trip.  

 

After Joyce’s death, I thought about our great plans that never happened.  But I thought, we can still go to New Orleans.  

 

We were scheduled to fly to New Orleans on Friday, October 9.  Everything was good to go, but there was a last-minute complication.  The only hurricane of the 2026 season was churning in the Gulf and it could possibly hit New Orleans.  Three days before our trip, the weather was showing heavy rain and wind every day.  

 

I didn’t know until I woke up that Friday morning if our flight was cancelled or not.  But the storm was headed east of New Orleans and we departed from Charlotte on-time. 

 

Except for some light wind on Friday, we experienced three days of perfect weather.  I think Joyce was looking out for us!

 

I was looking forward to visiting the Crescent City.  The one thing I really wanted to see was the World War II Museum.  Ray Nance and Sang had been there several years ago and told me that I needed to see it.  

 

During the Second World War, the Higgins Boats were manufactured in New Orleans.  These were the boats made famous in the D-Day landings at Normandy.  There were seven different facilities across New Orleans that built the boats during the war.  This is why the museum is in New Orleans.  It started as a D-Day Museum, then expanded to include the entire war. 

 

It is a massive museum.  You could easily spend several days exploring all of the exhibits and artifacts.  It is Smithsonian quality—exceptionally well done.  

 

On the way to the museum, I was telling Ella Rae, my granddaughter, that her great-grandfather (Joyce’s father) fought in the Second World War.  She also had a great uncle, (my aunt’s husband) who was killed in the Battle of Saipan.  

 

I wanted to give her as much information as possible on the war.  The causes, the history, the major battles . . . she is always eager to learn and I became her personal tour guide.  I have read much on the war and feel that I have more than an average knowledge.  

 

As we started through the European Theater section of the museum, I was explaining it all to her.  (Too loudly, Ray Nance said). But I wasn’t prepared for what would happen next. 

 

When we came to the area devoted to the aerial bombing campaign over Germany, I told her the story of Dozier “Bush” Linder.  Ray Nance and Sang live in the house where the Linders lived on West Fourth Avenue.  

 

Bush was involved in many air bombing missions over Germany.  Toward the end of the war, his plane went down and he was captured.  His wife, Helen, only knew that his plane had been shot down.  He was released from POW camp when the war ended and he made his way home.  It was not until he arrived in Lexington that Helen knew he had survived.  

 

We took a large group to Germany to see the Passion Play in the year 2000.  Bush and Helen went with us.  Bush told me that this was the first time since the war that he had returned to Germany. 

 

One night, the Linders did not come to dinner.  I thought they were tired or just decided not to eat that evening.  But the next morning Helen told me what happened.  

 

Bush had a breakdown when they got back to their room.  He talked about how beautiful Germany is and how lovely the people are.  He had only seen Germany from 10,000 feet and he was dropping bombs on them.  It all came to a head that night . . . he cried like a baby.  

 

There was an area devoted to the Holocaust.  I have been to the Holocaust museums in Jerusalem and Washington, DC.  I knew this would not be easy.  But I suddenly remembered Joe Miller.  If I mentioned the Holocaust in a sermon, Joe would have tears running down his face.  He would look at me and say, “People just don’t know, they just don’t know.”

 

Joe had been in one of the first divisions to liberate a Concentration Camp.  He saw the horror first-hand.  He could never forget.  Decades later, the mere mention of the Holocaust would reduce him to tears.

 

They had a well-documented section on the Battle of Bulge.  I immediately thought about Wade Johnson.  Wade was always a man on a mission. I knew that Wade had been a POW in the war, but he never talked about it.  The only thing he ever said to me was, “When I die, don’t use the 23^rd Psalm.  I want the 91^st Psalm.”

 

Wade died suddenly in October of 2008.  When I went with the family to the funeral home, Vernon Lloyd handed me a folder.  “We thought Wade had made pre-arrangements,” he said.  “But this is what he brought to the funeral home a number of years ago.”

 

On the folder he had written, “Give this to my minister when I die.”

 

Inside was a detailed, hand-written account of Wade’s experience as a POW.  He started by telling that his mother gave him a Bible when he went to war and told him to read the 91^st Psalm every day.  Wade said that he did not do that until they got to Germany and started fighting.  That is when he started reading the 91^st Psalm . . . every day.  

 

He wrote about being captured during the Battle of the Bulge and shot in the back by the Germans with a submachine gun.  Somehow, he survived.  A German medic took pity on him and gave him some chocolate.  The next day he was rescued by the Allies.  

 

It took Wade months to recover from his injuries, but he now had a purpose in life.  He lived his life on a mission from God, never talking about his experience in the war.  But he decided that when he died, he wanted his minister to tell his story.  At the end of his personal account, he wrote, “Tell this story at my funeral and read the 91^st Psalm.”  

 

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High,
    who abides in the shadow of the Almighty,
       will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress;
              my God, in whom I trust.”
For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
    and from the deadly pestilence;
       he will cover you with his pinions,
              and under his wings you will find refuge;
                      his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
       nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
              nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.

A thousand may fall at your side,
    ten thousand at your right hand;
       but it will not come near you.

 

I knew why he wanted me to read the 91^st Psalm at his funeral.

 

The Psalm ends with the words, “With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.”

 

That explained why Wade was always a man on a mission from God.

 

As I was telling Ella Rae about these men and their stories, I was overcome with emotion.  The dates, the timeline, the battles, the strategies, did not matter anymore.  I realized how deeply this war had changed their lives, and mine.  

 

They truly were “The Greatest Generation.”  

 

I Cannot Be Silent

 I was called to preach when I was only 16.  For 56 years, I have proclaimed the Gospel through preaching and teaching.  I had always felt that God blessed me with a good voice.  But back in the summer, I developed a problem.  

I noticed it one Sunday when I was preaching.  I was having trouble pronouncing some of my words.  Words that started with an “S” really gave me a problem.  I did not know what was going on.  

One night when I was eating, I could not form any words.  I was getting very concerned. Sunday was coming and I was fearful the problem would get worse.  It did.

I called Wes, our Minister of Music, and asked him if he would be prepared to lead a hymn if I had to stop preaching.  I remember him asking, “Do you really think you will not be able to preach?”  

“I don’t know,” I responded.  “I guess we will find out.”  

I could tell as soon as I started my sermon that Sunday that I would not get through it.  My words were slurred and garbled.  I’ve had people tell me later that they thought I was having a stroke.  I asked Wes to come and lead a hymn and I walked out of the sanctuary.  I got some water and when I came back I tried to continue preaching, but it wasn’t working.  I had crashed and burned.  

I went to see my dentist and she immediately said, “I think it is your CPAP machine.”  I’ve been using a CPAP for over 13 years.  Maybe she was right.

Then I decided to go see my ENT doctor.  She said, "We need to have you tested for Sjogren’s disease."  When the test came back negative, she said, “Maybe it is your CPAP machine.”  

My CPAP doctor was no longer with Atrium Health, so my ENT referred me to a new doctor.  It would be almost two months before I could get an appointment.  

I had not told my daughter about my problem.  I was assuming it was just dry mouth and I would get over it.  But she was watching our service.  She called me and said, “Dad, this could be serious.”

The next morning, I was in the Emergency Department.  I was being tested for a possible stroke or a brain tumor.  The Emergency Room doctor told me to follow up with my regular doctor.  The first thing she said was, “This could be your thyroid.  We need to have you tested.”

There was another possibility for which there was no test.  Maybe this was a symptom of my grief.  Grief can create physical issues . . . maybe I was just grieving.  

Sundays were not getting any better.  Chad Killebrew told me that if I ran into a problem, he would be glad to read my manuscript.  One Sunday I knew that I could not continue, so I invited Chad to take over.  

I did not tell anyone, but I was scared. My condition was not getting any better and there were no answers.  Whatever was causing it, I knew that I would not be able to continue preaching.  I started thinking about how I would step down.  It was not fair to the church to have a preacher without a voice.

In the last week of August, I traveled to the beach to spend some time with my oldest daughter, Lynn, and her family.  My oldest grandson, Benjamin, is an Infectious Disease Doctor in Spartanburg, South Carolina.  He was there with his wife and daughter.  

When we were leaving to come home, Benjamin told me that he thought I had a condition known as Myasthenia Gravis, a long-term autoimmune disease.  The immune system attacks the connection between the nerves and the muscles.  

 

This disease plays out in many different ways and can be very severe.  In my case, it is attacking my Bulbar muscles that control speaking.  Myasthenia Gravis is not curable, but it is treatable. 

He sent a note to my doctor asking that I be tested.  I was and that is exactly what I have.  My doctor immediately put me on medication that appears to be working.  

I had one more hurdle to clear.  Myasthenia Gravis can be caused by a tumor known as a thymoma.  I made one more trip to the hospital for a CT scan to rule out a tumor.  Almost before I got home my doctor had messaged me to share the good news—all was clear.  

The next day I had a visit with my doctor to see how the medicine was working.  The visit turned into something much more profound.

Dr. Alimena told me that there were two things she wanted to share with me.

She said, “I want you to understand how rare it is to be diagnosed in a clinical setting.  Many times, a patient is on a ventilator in ICU before we find out it is Myasthenia Gravis.” If Benjamin had not sent my doctor the note asking her to test me for this disease, I probably would still not know. 

The bloodwork for Myasthenia Gravis is very extensive. My blood was sent all over the country.  All of the tests came back positive except one.  The last test to return from a lab in California was negative.

 “This tells me,” my doctor said, “that the possibility of this progressing to other muscles is very unlikely.”  

Some people might say I was lucky.  Some would say fortunate.  But I realized that this was more than luck or chance—I was blessed. As my ENT doctor said, “It was meant to be.”

As a tremendous burden lifted off of my shoulders, I realized that God still has work for me to do. He is not finished with me yet.  

On one of the first Sundays when I could not continue my sermon, I recalled a story that I had told in one of my first Easter sermons, almost 50 years ago.  

A minister had lost his voice due to some type of throat disease.  He could no longer speak.  On Easter Sunday he wrote on a pad, “How tragic to awake on Easter Sunday without a voice to shout, Alleluia!  Christ is Risen!”

I remember thinking how terrible it would be for a preacher not to have a voice.  Now, it was happening to me.  The story kept coming back, it was haunting me.

But that is not all he wrote.  He added, “How much more tragic to have a voice and remain silent.”

Through the grace of God, the love and prayers of many people, and the wisdom of my grandson, I still have a voice.

I cannot be silent.  

We All Live Under the Sky

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

 

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

           

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

 

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

 

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

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

           

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

I spent many hours researching our options and reading travelers’ reviews.  I kept coming back to a farmhouse outside of San Gimignano named La Torraccia di Chiusi.  All of the reviews were consistent in their glowing praise.  In fact, there was not one single negative review, not a negative word.  We went to this wonderful farmhouse wondering if it could possibly live up to our lofty expectations—we did not need to worry, it exceeded them.   

 

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

 

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

       

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

       

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

       

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

       

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

 

What a night!   

       

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

       

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

       

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

       

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

       

And they did.

       

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

       

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

       

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

       

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

 

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