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.