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.