This blog is where I can pour out my heart with my longing for God.

Posts tagged ‘friendship’

The Old Paths: Our Loss, Heaven’s Gain

(This was originally published in The Stokes News on December 8, 2011, in my regular column, “The Old Paths.” Due to the fact that all Internet links were broken to our old articles when Civitas Media switched websites, I am slowly but surely posting all of my old columns in my blog so that they will be archived as they SHOULD’VE been on the newspaper website.)

Mike Joyce, the longest-running sheriff in Stokes County history!

Mike Joyce, the longest-running sheriff in Stokes County history!

It was a breezy Sunday morning in Iowa. The September sun shone on my ballcap-clad head as I walked into the tunnel made by the arching cornstalks at the Field of Dreams.

I plucked an ear of corn and guiltily put it inside my jacket. Even though I had found no restrictions on picking corn, I still worried that I was committing a crime. Was that the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson shaking his head at me?

But ever since former Sheriff Mike Joyce had shown me the ear of corn his stepson Joe had brought him from the Field of Dreams, I had been determined to have one. And now I couldn’t wait to tell him about mine.

I never got to tell him.

Once home, I had to work furiously so I could resign from The Stokes News in late September. One of my final stories was about Joyce preparing for a bone marrow transplant and the importance of him being shielded from infection.

So I figured I would just save the story for when he came home from Duke Medical Center at the first of the year. He and I had big things to do! We shared a dream–to create a Stokes County Sports Hall of Fame/Museum.

On the old paths, I’d go to Danbury each Thursday to pick up the public records for the paper. If it was “my lucky day,” Sheriff Joyce would beckon me into his office–a baseball lover’s dream. His cherished baseball memorabilia adorned the walls, the cabinets, the desk.

I never tired of hearing his stories–usually baseball stories, because he was one of the few people I knew whose passion for that most excellent sport surpassed even my own. He’d loan me baseball movies, tell me little-known baseball facts and often discuss Stokes County’s own rich baseball heritage.

Sheriff Joyce felt that Stokes should have a place where local sports heroes and their accomplishments could be memorialized for the public to view. His idea captured my fancy.

I imagined the fruition of that dream. I could see the ribbon-cutting, with Sheriff Joyce presiding and local sports legends present–the Nunn brothers from up Nancy Reynolds way, Kenny Dennard, Bill Murrell, Dusty Ackley, Mikey Joyce and so many others.

I had a sneaky little plan to persuade museum supporters to name the museum in honor of Mike Joyce. I kept my idea under wraps because he would have protested, being the incredibly humble and unselfish man that he was.

We never got to plan that museum together. Just two months after Sheriff Joyce announced in late 2009 that he would not seek re-election, he was diagnosed with leukemia.

I watched him fight the good fight for nearly two years. Although I wasn’t the sports editor, I begged to cover him throwing out the ceremonial first pitch in April 2010 when Field Two at Lions Park in Walnut Cove was named after him. He reminisced about coaching teams there, telling me how he still had the game ball from when his son Mikey pitched a perfect game.

It was a cruel blow to hear that the leukemia had reared its ugly head again late in the spring of 2011. But through aggressive treatment, it was soon forced back into the abyss where it belongs.

And then it was time for the final assault on the disease–a bone marrow transplant that would conceivably put the lid on the cancer and bring Joyce home again to his beloved wife Gail and family, his trusty motorcycle and plenty of good sports to watch.

But none of us are promised tomorrow, and neither was Sheriff Joyce. Before the transplant, leukemia came back with a vengeance for a third time. I kept thinking that surely such a great man who had done such enormous good for Stokes County wouldn’t die before enjoying retirement. It didn’t seem fair somehow.

But that’s not how it works. In this fallen world, the rain falls on the just and the unjust, and as Billy Joel sang, sometimes “only the good die young.”

I was on the road to Orlando, FL, when a county leader texted me on December 1, “He’s gone to Heaven.” I was asked to write the newspaper story even though I was on vacation and was no longer the editor of The Stokes News. I gladly wrote it on my laptop as my daughter drove. It was loaded to the website using McDonald’s free Wi-fi in a little Florida town.

I spent the evening searching for remembrances of Sheriff Joyce on Facebook, taking notes on the heartfelt stories I found there. And then it hit me. I was doing exactly what writer Terence Mann (played by James Earl Jones) did in the movie that Sheriff Joyce and I loved so dearly, “Field of Dreams.”

Mann collected notes from personal testimonies about the life of a small-town doctor–Archibald “Moonlight” Graham. I had once compared Sheriff Joyce to Graham in a feature story I wrote, and now I was collecting testimonies about him. Both men had dreamed of playing professional baseball.

Here are the last couple of paragraphs of my 2009 story:

Archie Graham makes it to the majors for about five minutes—not even long enough to get one at-bat. He returns to his hometown and becomes a doctor who is beloved by the entire region for over half a century.

Ray Kinsella (Kevin Costner) agonizes over Graham’s coming so close to a dream that was never realized. “Some men would call that a tragedy,” he insists.

The wise old doctor replies, “Son, if I’d only gotten to be a doctor for five minutes, then that would’ve been a tragedy.”

Many would argue that the analogy is a good one for Sheriff Mike Joyce’s life. Law enforcement may not have been the “field of his dreams,” but he has striven to fulfill his destiny with loyalty and integrity. A tragedy, perhaps, for Joyce that he didn’t get to play major league baseball, but a tragedy indeed, for the citizens of Stokes County, if he had.

When Mann interviewed the locals about Doc Graham, he heard how children who could not afford eyeglasses or milk or clothing would never be denied these essentials because Dr. Graham would make sure they were provided for.

Similarly, I heard stories of Sheriff Joyce’s big heart. Kathy Grubbs Marshall told how she dropped in one day to see her grandpa about six months after her grandmother died. Sheriff Joyce was there and confessed that he often went by to check on Mr. Burke. He was so at home there that he went to get the “nabs jar” and they all shared a Pepsi.

Mr. Burke was a staunch Democrat and Sheriff Joyce, a rigid Republican. But that didn’t matter when it came down to deeper issues of the heart.

Another person told how the unpretentious sheriff once dressed up as a woman to take part in a womanless beauty pageant to benefit a young boy who had leukemia. Jennifer Mickey Fulp shared the story of Sheriff Joyce going weekly to visit her ailing grandpa, former Stokes County Sheriff Clyde Duggins.

No fanfare, no self-promotion, no ulterior motive other than doing the right thing and caring about fellow human beings.

Was he perfect? Of course not–the only perfect man walked the earth 2,000 years ago.

But Mike Joyce will undoubtedly go down in history as one of the best people to ever breathe our good ole Stokes County air. He was one of the most beloved leaders in county history, with support from people in all political parties.

Sheriff Joyce, I will miss your quiet laugh that sometimes made no sound but shook your body. I will recall your compassionate eyes and hear your slow-paced, kind voice. I will remember your true humility and integrity and use it as a model to aspire to.

I will even admit that I pulled for the Texas Rangers in the World Series but am still glad your beloved St. Louis Cardinals won, for your sake.

I hope to press on with plans for a Stokes County Sports Hall of Fame/Museum, but it won’t be the same without you. I won’t rest until it bears your name, but how I wish you could be there to cut the ribbon.

But you’ll be watching from Heaven, I figure. I’ll bet that somehow you even know about my ear of corn from the Field of Dreams in Iowa. Hope to see you on the other side–on the new paths where there is no leukemia, no sickness, no pain.

And if there’s a field up there where old baseball players go to play the games of their dreams, save me a spot on the bleachers right beside you, will ya?

Me and Mike Joyce at WCLL

Me with Sheriff Mike Joyce on the opening day of Walnut Cove Little League when Field 2 at Lions Park was named after him. He threw out the first pitch of the 2009 season.

The Old Paths: Pass It On

*This was published in The Stokes News on June 24, 2010, in my regular column, “The Old Paths.” Due to the fact that all Internet links were broken to our old articles when Civitas Media switched websites, I am slowly but surely posting all of my old columns in my blog so that they will be archived as they SHOULD’VE been on the newspaper website.

**This particular column was perhaps my very favorite of all I ever wrote. It was about my precious friend, Anita Burroughs Mabe, who died of cancer at the age of 46 on June 22, 2010. She passed away on our weekly newspaper press day, and I knew I had to write a column about her–whether or not I had time. So late that night when everyone else had left the newspaper office, I poured my heart out in this column.

When I finished proofing it, I looked at the clock; it was 3:11 a.m. on June 23. When I saw the 3:11, chills went all over me, because that particular number always reminded me of my beloved hometown of Walnut Cove, since Highway 311 runs straight through it. If anybody understood my one-track-mind calling to Walnut Cove, it was Anita.  I began to sob so vehemently that I fell off the chair into the floor where I lay for a while, weeping loudly in the grief of losing Anita. She had always supported my ministry to my hometown, and now she was gone. But there was still a mighty work of God to be done, and she would’ve urged me to continue.

The next spring, I sent off the application to finally incorporate the ministry God had told me to start in Walnut Cove–Times of Refreshing (on the Old Paths). I waited and waited for it to come back from the North Carolina Secretary of State’s office. When it arrived at last, I was taken aback by the date stamped on it–June 22, 2011. Exactly one year after Anita’s passage to Heaven, the ministry was approved by the State.

So every year on June 22, I celebrate the calling of God He put in me for Walnut Cove, and I think of Anita–that bright soul who is probably smiling down now, saying, “You go, girl! God’s got your back!” Here is the column I wrote the day she passed:

Anita at one of her final Relay for Life events--her dear friend Jan Clary to the right. Jan has also gone on to be with the Lord.

Anita at one of her final Relay for Life events–her dear friend Jan Clary to the right. Jan has also gone on to be with the Lord.

One of my favorite church youth group songs back when dinosaurs roamed the earth was “Pass It On.” I remember the swelling feeling in my heart as we sang those beautiful words, “It only takes a spark to get a fire going, And soon all those around can warm up in its glowing.”

We often sang it at summer camp, sitting around a campfire in the dark of the evening. I would sing it, tears in my eyes, yearning to be one of those sparks that would spread God’s love. I could envision the world catching on fire with the glory of the Lord as all of the “sparks” spread what they had to others.

We lost one of these “sparks” this week.

Anita Burroughs Mabe’s earthly light was extinguished on Tuesday, June 22, 2010.

Or was it?

My first clear memory of Anita was at First Baptist Church when I was six years old. I was sitting on the front row in Sunday School one summer morning when my little friend Anita walked in. My eyes bugged out at the change I saw.

In an era when all little girls wore dresses to church, Anita appeared in a little shorts jumpsuit–blue, if I remember correctly. What was even more shocking was the fact that her blond hair was almost gone–not just cut in the popular girl’s “pixie” style, but cut like a boy’s.

Turns out that while her mom was away, her dad had to chop off her hair for reasons I can’t remember now. Was it that five-year-old Anita had begun to cut it herself or did she have something in it like gum? I don’t recall.

Whatever the reason, she ended up coming to church dressed like the little boy she looked like that long ago day. I can still clearly see those big blue eyes defiantly daring me to say a word.

Anita with her family at Old-Fashioned Day at First Baptist Church long, long ago. She is the girl in the white cap to the far right.

Anita with her family at Old-Fashioned Day at First Baptist Church long, long ago. She is the girl in the white cap to the far right.

That spunk carried Anita through many a tough year. Diagnosed with cancer about five years ago, she fought the good fight of faith and did not waver in her belief that everything would be all right.

The day of her passing from the earthly realm was press day for me–the most demanding day of my week. I alternated between crying and laughing all day long as we rushed to get this week’s paper completed. I’d look over at my general manager, Shannon, also a dear friend of Anita’s, and tell a funny Anita story. We’d laugh awhile then grow silent and weepy again as we realized our time with her was done….for now.

As the day grew more hectic with reports of power outages in King and last-minute stories to write, I escaped by mentally reliving the serenity of my last day alone with Anita.

It was a May afternoon. There had been a Wednesday morning prayer meeting at Anita’s house. She sat on the couch, fully participating, even reading aloud her assigned Bible passage. We all watched a video composed of pictures taken at the benefit event held for Anita at Germanton Park the week before, set to beautiful praise and worship music. Those bluer than blue eyes that had changed very little from those in the determined face of the five-year-old girl I once knew welled up with tears of gratitude for the community support. As everyone began to leave, Anita looked at me and with a calm smile said, “Stay awhile, Les,” using her nickname for me.

We spent a few hours in her quiet living room, peace pervading the atmosphere. She, the ever-busy and always-in-demand, longtime funeral director, and I, the too-busy and also in-demand news editor–enjoying a slow and easy spring day, talking about the things of the Lord and the joy our children had brought to us.

At one point, her eyes widened as she looked at me, and she exclaimed, “You’re MARRIED!” I was flabbergasted. Not even my family knew that I had recently eloped, but somehow Anita sensed it. She was thrilled when I admitted that I had indeed remarried. For months, she had encouraged me to do so, telling me with a poignant knowledge that I better snatch up this opportunity because we never know when our last days on earth will be.

All good things must come to an end, and so did our rare interval of peace together. As I drove off, my last glimpse was of her waving to me as she very slowly and weakly walked to the mailbox, the bright sun shining down on her.

That same joy was on Anita’s face on Friday, June 11, as she attended her son Colby’s graduation at South Stokes High. She smiled at me and said, “Hey, girlie girl,” another of her nicknames for me. Later, I saw her in her wheelchair looking out onto the football field minutes before Colby marched down the track. Her face was expectantly smiling, almost childlike with joy and wonder.

No matter what your religious beliefs are, allow me to believe that’s what Anita’s face looked like this morning as she passed into the presence of her Savior. Before, she could “only imagine,” but now she knows.

The legacy of friendship and compassion that she left behind from her years of comforting the bereaved all across Stokes County is monumental. Was she perfect? No. Who is? Should she be idealized? No. She was mere flesh and blood, as are we all.

But even in her humanity, Anita carried with her a spark of the divine. That spark warmed me during a cold period in my life a few years back. How can I forget how she picked me up one winter’s night when I was feeling like a prisoner in my own life and took to me to Walmart, out to eat and riding around on dark Stokes County back roads late at night–just two gals pouring their hearts out to one another.

I believe you call that true friendship.

I told her how much I appreciated that at a time when many of the people I thought were friends had made themselves scarce while I struggled to stay afloat. She said  she would never forget something her daddy told her–that a true friend is someone who would drive from here to Georgia to bail you out of jail without even having to know if you were guilty or not.

A month or two later as I struggled to see the light of day from the pit I had fallen into, Anita once again came to get me. She took me to Kernersville and bought me a cheeseburger and fries.

She fed my body with my favorite comfort food, but she fed my soul with the unconditional love of God.

As I looked into the mirror on Tuesday while getting ready for work, I threw up my hands and cried out, “But I just want to talk to her again!” My world seemed a little darker with Anita’s spark extinguished.

But then a revelation hit me. Any candle that glows brightly and uses its fire to light other candles will never truly go out. That individual wick may be bare of light, but the same fire that once engulfed it now engulfs other candles that still burn brightly. A candle that has shared its fire with others is never truly extinguished.

And so Anita’s God-given spark lives on. What would she want us to do with it? Pass it on….by loving others with the love of God, reaching out to improve the lives of those around us, helping youth, praying for our communities, comforting those who are hurting and being a true friend no matter what.

We lost a friend temporarily, but while we yet live, let us endeavor to keep the fire of God’s love going. “It only takes a spark to get a fire going . . .Pass it on.”

**One way we are passing on that spark is by resurrecting the annual youth rally that Anita began in the summer of 2008. For years, she and another group of moms had gathered at the start of every school year to pray for their children. That gave her the idea to hold a “Stokes Stoked” youth rally to kick off each school year. The first one at Lions Park on Aug. 30, 2008 brought about 400 people out. The next summer, weather forced it indoors to London Gym, and the turnout was not as good. By the next summer, Anita was gone.

I felt then that we should continue the youth rally in her memory, but life was more than I could handle at that time. LAST SUMMER, however, was the time to do it! We reserved Lions Park for Sat., Aug. 30, 2014–remarkably enough, the exact same day and date that Anita held that original rally–and had over 500 people in attendance, with at least 24 local churches participating. We plan to hold STOKES STOKED again this year–probably around the Labor Day Weekend once more. Contact me via email at: theoldpathsatwalnutcove@yahoo.com if you would like to play a role or give a donation toward the many expenses we will incur–stage rental, hot dogs for giveaway, Bibles and more. LET’S PASS IT ON!

Living a Life That Brings Joy. . .

The joyful life of Inez!

The joyful life of Inez!

When I was five years old, my parents decided to build a house. What an exciting time it was for this very young couple! They enlisted the aid of a local builder, L.G. Brown, who was quite a bit older than them. He and his wife Inez already had teenagers, but they also had a young daughter named Donna–only 14 days younger than me. Donna became my first-ever best friend, so her mother, Inez, became a sort of extra mother to me.

Inez and Donna not long ago

Inez and Donna not long ago

The years flew by, but Donna stayed a constant in my life, as did her mother. My elementary school friends and I saw quite a bit of Inez who brought Donna to school each day. Most of us rode the school bus, but Donna was having separation anxieties, being the youngest child in her family and very attached to her mother. I usually bought a cafeteria line lunch, but I remember that Donna almost always brought her lunch in those early years. And yes, I suffered some childish pangs of jealousy when I’d see Donna’s cheese puffs, packed by her mommy.

When it came time for me to begin leaving the nest a little–occasionally spending the night with a friend once I was eight or nine–it was to Donna’s house that I went first. Inez always gave us free run of the place–letting us stay up as late as we wanted, letting us eat junk and pretty much leaving us alone (but always safe). My first-ever movie with a friend was in fourth grade when Donna’s older sister, Bobbie, took us to a Disney flick. We were late for the one we wanted to see, so we ended up seeing Kurt Russell in “The Computer Who Wore Tennis Shoes.” Then we went back home to Donna’s where Inez was waiting to warmly enfold me in a bear hug just as if I were her own child.

Junior high brought the same situations–sleepovers at Donna’s. Only the locations were different, as they often moved to different houses that her dad built, fascinating me by a change in venue. There were 1 a.m. runs through the yard after telling ghost stories, stepping on slimy slugs that we couldn’t get off our bare feet. There was “The Midnight Special” on late-night TV, sometimes followed by “Shock Theater.” There was the donging of the big grandfather clock that never failed to disrupt what little sleep I got. There was delicious food ever available, even at 3 a.m.

And there was Inez–always wearing a smile, often laughing a laugh that was more like a gurgling girlish giggle, and forever loving us all with her very expressive type of love.

Inez and Donna's daughter Laura not long ago

Inez and Donna’s daughter Laura not long ago

When it came time for the big move to high school, Inez took Donna and me to Hanes Mall–a fairly new establishment with awesome stores like the “County Seat” and “Just Pants” where we could get Levis in any color of corduroy. The day before we entered South Stokes High School, Donna and I bought matching royal blue corduroy Levis and light blue sleeveless shirts to wear on that oh-so-important first day, since I was spending the night with her. (I believe we ended up chickening out of actually wearing the matching outfits that first day, lest the coveted boys from the neighboring town of King think us immature!)

By that time, Donna lived in a square house. Wait, you say. Many houses are square, right? What’s the big deal about that? Well, let me explain. Donna’s house was a square with the middle cut out with space for a big old swimming pool. So to reach the other side of the house, you had to walk the whole perimeter of the square to get there. Very unusual but very cool to a teenager like me. Donna’s room was at one end of the house with a living area between it and her parents’ room. So we could play our music and laugh and be loud. Inez never fussed at us, no matter how loud we played “Float On” or “Boogie Fever.”

The very jolly Inez in costume, joking around as she often did!

The very jolly Inez in costume, joking around as she often did!

All too soon, we were adults, but Donna and I kept in touch. I was at her wedding in the middle of the square house. We had our daughters, Chelsea and Laura, the same year. Donna was the secretary at the Extension Office when I led a 4-H club, putting us in constant contact. And always in the background was Inez, still grabbing me for a bear hug whenever she saw me around town. When she was first diagnosed with lung cancer in the late ’90s or early 2000s (can’t remember), I invited her to a healing service at my church in Winston-Salem. She and Donna came, and before I knew it, there was Inez at that altar, her hands uplifted, having the preachers lay hands on her. Her faith was shining out of her bright eyes!

Inez always kept us laughing and was so full of joy you couldn't be sad around her.

Inez always kept us laughing and was so full of joy you couldn’t be sad around her.

Inez and I became even closer when I went to work as news editor at The Stokes News. Our office was beside the pharmacy where Inez would often go. My desk was right in front of the big picture window that looked out onto the sidewalk traffic. Inez would suddenly appear in that window, her whole face engulfed in smile wrinkles, waving to me or blowing me kisses. More often than not, she would rush in the door to give me a quick hug before going next door. Sometimes she would share with me a new poem that she had written. Once I even used one of these poems about her childhood memories of the creek in my “The Old Paths” column entitled “Down By the Crick.” She was so thrilled with that!

One of Inez's beautiful poems. I have a whole folder of them--handwritten onto lovely notepaper.

One of Inez’s beautiful poems. I have a whole folder of them–handwritten onto lovely notepaper.

After I quit my job to become a full-time mommy once more, I didn’t see as much of Inez, but Donna kept me posted on her health. When I heard that Inez had become primarily bedridden at the age of 83–almost 84–I told Donna I would try to visit her mother. Well, I stay very busy and kept putting off my visit until finally Inez called my mother and said, “I thought Leslie was coming to see me!” I had to laugh because I could hear Inez saying that in her vivacious way.

Inez never lost her smile or her joy. And Donna, her sister Bobbie and the rest of the family were constantly there for her.

Inez never lost her smile or her joy. And Donna, her sister Bobbie and the rest of the family were constantly there for her.

So I went right over that very day, taking my eight-year-old son Malachi with me. I knew Inez’s health had been failing rapidly so I wasn’t sure what to expect when I entered her bedroom. But I should’ve known she’d be lying there with a big grin and still laughing that very distinctive laugh that made you feel good just to hear it. We talked and prayed and laughed and had such a good time together! I went to make her feel better, but as usual, it was the other way around.

While we prayed, I opened my eyes to see her eyes shut tightly, her feeble hand clutching mine, her lips trembling as she praised God for touching her. It was as if the glory of God was in that peaceful room where this woman of faith lay in trust of her Savior. Malachi helped me pray, which blessed Inez so much.

Before we left, she insisted on blessing us. She made me pick out some jewelry that she had so enjoyed making. So I took a set of pinkish/lavender pearls.

My precious pearls that Inez made.

My precious pearls that Inez made.

Then she told me to get a silky white scarf from her dresser and take it as my own.

My scarf from Inez!

My scarf from Inez!

As if that wasn’t enough, she told me to pick a book from her shelf, telling me she had already read those and wanted to bless others with them. I chose one called “The Journey” by Billy Graham.

The book Inez wanted me to take and read

The book Inez wanted me to take and read

Then it was Malachi’s turn. She had a supply of toys that he could choose from. I thought he would surely choose a stuffed animal, but he picked a pink heart-shaped case. He promptly drew a picture of me on it with black marker and said I was his heart.

Malachi with his heart from Inez

Malachi with his heart from Inez

As I left Inez that lovely summer afternoon, I did not know it would be the last time that I saw her. I got a very sweet thank you note she wrote me in her own fragile handwriting. Even the tone of that sounded cheerful and upbeat, despite her intense suffering.

The card I will forever treasure

The card I will forever treasure

I kept thinking I would go back by there but never did.

I got the word on Tuesday morning, August 20, that the end was nigh for Inez. My mother had gone by there to pray for her and said that although Inez’s eyes were closed and she could not respond, she seemed to be humming something. Donna thought it was a Steven Curtis Chapman song–something about “perfect.” I immediately thought it could be “His Strength Is Perfect” which would’ve been ideal for the situation. A dying woman, no strength of her own, realizing that all she had to rely on was HIS strength. Inez’s humming proved to me that our spirits are aware even when our flesh realm seems out of commission.

A few hours later, I heard that she had passed. Several times that day, I sneaked off to the bathroom to cry. (Yes, maybe I am still too proud to really cry in front of people.) I would read something Inez’s granddaughter Laura had posted on Facebook, and I would tear up. Then I’d act as if I were simply going to the bathroom, and I would weep privately a bit. Many of the tears were happy ones. I could absolutely imagine joyful Inez, with her preciously childlike spirit, entering the presence of the Lord. What a reunion with her Savior and those that she loved, such as her beloved husband L.G. and their firstborn son, Mike!

Somehow Heaven seemed a bit closer knowing that Inez had just entered those beautiful realms of glory.

Tonight I will pay my last respects to this woman who was such a constant in my life for so many years. And I will know that she leaves behind the kind of testimony that I want to have. When I think of her, I see a smile that takes up her whole face. I hear that giggle that sounded like a teenager. I feel the love that she oozed toward me and others. I remember a generous heart who wanted to give more than receive. I recall a go-getter personality that at the same time, almost paradoxically, exuded peace and a laid-back feeling. She didn’t care if her house was spotless and dust-free; she’d rather play with her kids. She didn’t feel the pressure to be at every regimented church meeting and program; she simply lived the Gospel each and every day.

Yes, the angels surely rejoiced when Inez leaped through the door of Heaven , whole and strong once more. But for those of us left behind, the world is a little bit gray today. The comfort is in knowing that it isn’t over. We who know our Lord Jesus will see Inez again, and we will spend forever in eternal bliss where the Lamb is the light and there are no more tears. Inez will never shed another one, but today, I just might.

“Get Right, Church, and Let’s Go Home!”–remembering my friend Scottie. . .

Pretty Scottie

I was covered from neck to wrists to ankles in horrid, red, scaly sores. Clear skin was becoming scarce on my body, particularly on my trunk where the sores seemed to thrive. Embarrassment was my constant companion when I had to go out in public.

Finally, a diagnosis came–pityriasis rosea–a viral, itchy, scaly skin disease. Cure? None–it runs its course in about two months or less and can recur. Its trigger? Unknown–possibly a lack of sunlight.

“Great,” I said sarcastically. My dad had been diagnosed with Stage 3 Lentigo Melanoma the year before, so I had determined to avoid the sun for fear of skin cancer. Now I avoid the sun and get a disease–albeit not deadly–that can be caused by too little sun. Just great. :/

So I sighed and swallowed my pride each time I went to church and had to wear a dress. Even pantyhose couldn’t disguise my sore-stricken legs. I felt like a leper.

Here she came across the pews after church service one Wednesday night back in about 1993–my friend Scottie, a vivacious brunette with a contagious laugh that was almost like a little girl’s giggle. She gave me that look that would cut right through you–a very real look that could detect anything hidden. “What’s going on with you?” Scottie asked.

I told her my dilemma, and she patted me on the back. “Come up to the shop tomorrow,” she said. “I’m gonna put you in the tanning bed and clear those things up.” I hesitated, not sure how to tell her that at this crucial juncture in our lives, I didn’t even have money for tanning sessions.

“I’m not gonna charge you,” she seemed to read my mind. “Come up tomorrow on your lunch break.”

So the next day, I hurried just up the street from my job as an orthodontic office manager in Kernersville to Scottie’s hair salon on Main Street. She welcomed me into the suavely-decorated shop (grays and pinks maybe? It’s been a long time) with her characteristically big smile, full of pretty white teeth.

Before long, I was settled into a tanning bed for the first time in my life, praying fervently that the UV rays would zap those disgusting sores. Scottie would have me back up every few days until, within two weeks, those sores were fading rapidly. Her joy was almost as huge as mine.

“What’d I tell ya?” she giggled that melodic giggle that always made me want to laugh along with her. I was so grateful and never forgot her kindness.

That was nearly 20 years ago, but still those nasty sores try to come back every now and then. When they do, I head to the tanning bed (a rare occasion) and often think of Scottie and her big heart.

Scottie was so at home in her various barber shops throughout the years.

It came as quite a shock to me when the phone call came this past Sunday night that she had passed away. Scottie? A woman so full of life that you just knew she was going to live to at least 120? No way!

I had heard a couple of years ago that she had been diagnosed with cancer, but I had no idea it had gotten to this point. I kept up with her via Facebook, enjoying the pictures of her in seemingly good health. My problem was that I couldn’t imagine anything on this Earth getting the best of Scottie. She was a bit larger than life to me, I guess.

We both had left the church we used to attend together–me in 2003 and her in 2010–and we lived in different areas. I had seen her a time or two through those years, but as often happens when people move away–even if it’s just to another town in the same region–you lose touch.

Scottie back in the day, a few years before I met her.

Yet I thought of Scottie often, like when I’d get a haircut. During my first few years at our church back in the ’80s, I had let my hair grow out to my waist–no bangs, no layers. I was “Plain Jane” Leslie. That vibrant Scottie got hold of me at a makeup party she hosted one night and said, “Come up to the barber shop! I’m gonna cut that ole long hair off and make you look your age.”

I thought I would faint as I saw those long brown tresses hit the floor of the shop she then shared with Jesse on West Mountain Street in Kernersville. “My hair, my hair! What have I done?” I was crying inside.

But when Scottie whirled that chair around to show me the finished product in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised. Soft layers framing my face down to my shoulders. Scottie was right! I looked like a teenager again! She was like the cat that swallowed the canary when I walked into church on Wednesday night, stunning everyone with my new do.

When spiral perms became all the rage, here came Scottie, telling me my hair–steadily growing longer again–would look great with those long ringlets of spiral curl. And guess what? She was on the money again. Oh, the time we spent together at her shop as she spent literally hours rolling up my hair in those heavy spiral curlers every few months!

Spending time with her was fun–made me feel like a little girl again, sharing secrets and giggling. When she gave birth to her daughter Tiffany, I hurried over to see if maybe childbirth had slowed down that irrepressible Scottie.

Of course not. There she was dressed in nothing but one of her husband Greg’s white shirts, positively glowing with happiness and still laughing. Her joy, like her laughter, was contagious. “They told me I might never be able to have children,” she confided in me. “But they were wrong.” And she always gave God all the glory for it.

Scottie and her beloved Tiffany!

Scottie proudly showed us her little Tiffy. “I prayed for a girl, and that’s what I got!” she declared, shooting Greg a look that dared him to disagree. Not that he would’ve–already he looked proud as a peacock when Scottie would show her many visitors a picture of him as a baby to prove how much Tiffany resembled her daddy.

We were all part of a close-knit church family–sharing birthday parties, camping trips, choir practices, youth camps, revivals, fellowship dinners. Scottie made every party more fun, bringing her infectious laughter and fun-loving personality.

She would tell me how she visited Graceland once right after Elvis purportedly died and how she thought she briefly spotted him there. Once when our pastor mentioned Elvis for some odd reason in a sermon, my family looked over at Scottie from our third-row pew on the right to her second-row pew in the middle. We teased her, mouthing the words, “Elvis is dead.” Her expressive eyes lit up with fire and she pursed her lips together defiantly, shaking her head no. Oh, the fun we had with that.

When I first heard she was battling cancer a couple of years ago, I kept saying, “I’ll go see her.” I did get her mailing address to send a card, but I never did actually lay eyes on her again. I had gone through a tough divorce that left me embarrassed as a Christian, and I let my pride keep me from showing my face around many of my old friends. My irrational fear of possibly being treated differently by those I had so loved (certainly not by Scottie and probably not by anyone at all–the enemy tells us things like this to keep us separated) kept me holed up here in Stokes County. Pride/embarrassment is no excuse; it was selfish of me.

Plus, we humans have this procrastination gene that prompts us to say, “I’ll do it real soon.”

Well, guess what? Real soon became two years, and I lost the chance. Yes, I prayed for her and I communicated through Facebook, but how I wish I could’ve seen those sparkling eyes one more time or heard that musical laugh that just tickled my insides somehow.

If you have somebody you long to see again, don’t put it off. Go now. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us.

“As for man, his days are like grass; As a flower of the field, so he flourishes. For the wind passes over it, and it is gone, And its place remembers it no more.” Psalm 103:15-16

I’ve cried several times this week when I’ve thought of Scottie and how her days on Earth were over so soon–only 57 years old when she left us. But some of those tears have also been happy ones because of beautiful memories of her praising God at church, deep gratitude that I was able to know such a strong woman of God, joy thrilling down in my soul that Scottie isn’t gone–just in another dimension–an eternal one where she waits for us to join her in the presence of the Lord one day.

I have lost a lot of beloved people in my life. But somehow I can’t imagine any of them being quite as excited as I can imagine Scottie being when she first saw Jesus. That’s not a slam on any of those other saints of God that I so loved; it’s simply a statement about Scottie’s bubbling joy that she was never ashamed to express. Others of us–with me as chief–let pride hold us back from so much. But not Scottie. She was REAL, as real as real gets.

And I know she’s REAL happy right now–finally at home with the Savior that she so adored and was never ashamed to proclaim.

Scottie loved her family–husband Greg, daughter Tiffany, son-in-law Clayton and precious grandson Clay.

I’ve heard that Scottie requested that someone sing “Get Right, Church, and Let’s Go Home!” for the funeral. We’d all do well to listen to the message of that song and prepare ourselves to enter in. It won’t be long, and we’ll be there with Scottie, shouting along with her and the other saints in glory who have been cheering us on all along.

Scottie fought a good fight, she finished her course, and most importantly, SHE KEPT THE FAITH. Henceforth there is laid up for her a crown of righteousness in a place where there is no more cancer, no more pain, no more crying, and the Lamb will be the light. I figure Scottie’s gonna be snuggled right there next to Him.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” Rev. 21:4

We all need somebody to lean on

“So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members one of another.” (Romans 12:5)

In my longing for Him, more and more I want to be aware of the Body of Christ worldwide. I have a physical sister in Walnut Cove, but a spiritual sister in Uganda. I have a blood-kin brother in Dry Hollow, but a blood-bought brother in Colombia.

I don’t know what they look like in the flesh, but when we all get to Heaven, I KNOW that I will recognize them in the spirit. I have never met them, but I love them. They may not have the blood of Tom and Judy Bray flowing through their physical veins, but they have my Father’s blood coursing through their spiritual arteries.

Have you ever awakened in the night feeling the need to intercede, yet you have no idea whom to pray for? For all you know, you are making intercession for an anonymous believer on the other side of the world or maybe even in your own town.

What a comfort to know that the favor may often be returned! When you are going through a tough time and feel all alone, rest assured that your Father has someone praying for you. A little old man in India may be working in the field and suddenly feel the need to pray in the Spirit–things that he doesn’t understand in the natural. But that prayer may be for you, and you will never know it.

But God knows it. And that prayer of obedience does not go forth void.

In this workaday world, we get so wrapped up in our own lives, our own needs, our own troubles, that it is easy to forget to pray for our brothers and sisters in Christ–the other members of our very own Body. I have felt the Lord dealing with me more and more, when I am in need of prayer, to stop and pray for others–when I feel that I need attention, to show attention to someone else–when I wish someone would care about me, to reach out to care for someone else.

This was burned into my soul more than ever last Sunday morning at Times of Refreshing. The Lord led us straight into the Word without any singing or organized prayer. But after I exhorted my sisters and brothers about the need for Him to be increased in our lives, I felt the need for a time of worship before we went our separate ways.

As we sang and worshiped to “O Glorious Day” by Casting Crowns, I could feel the presence of the Lord so sweetly. I wanted to give Him every part of me, so I attempted to lift the right arm that has been hindered for over six months. In the past two weeks, I had been unable to lift it at all.

That may seem like no big deal to you, but you have to know me: I am a girl who goes all out if I’m going to do something. I don’t want to lift just one hand; I want them both up in the air in praise. No matter how hard I strained, the right arm was too weak and the pain too excruciating for me to be able to raise it. So I ceased trying.

Until the next song.

As Chris Tomlin began to sing, “How Great Is Our God,” I entered into such a state of worship that before I knew it, I had done something almost unconsciously. I used my left arm to raise my weakened right arm into the air. Once I got it up and held it there with the left hand for a minute, it stayed up there on its own with no pain. I was ecstatic as I praised the Lord with both hands lifted high.

And then it hit me: this is what God wants us to do in the Body of Christ. When we see a member who is weakened, who is in pain–it is our Christian duty to lift them up. They are part of our Body, just as my right arm–though seemingly useless–is part of my body. My stronger left arm stepped in to lift it up where it then found strength to stay for a time. Once the right arm was down and again too weak to move, my left arm could intercede once more. . .and again and again. . .as long as was needed for the right hand to regain its own strength.

Tears of joy began to flow down my face as the reality of this powerful lesson hit me. The stronger members of the Body of Christ MUST step in to support other members of the Body who are weakened through trial and tribulation. My right hand was once my stronger hand, but right now it needs help. We may be standing strong today, but there will most certainly come a time when we need other saints of God to provide support for us.

Do you know someone who is hurting? Can you think of a fellow believer who is not standing strong right now? Ask God what you can do to support them. Maybe it’s a handwritten card of appreciation, perhaps it’s a phone call just to say you are thinking of them; it could be a hug and a whispered, “I love you and am praying for you.” Most of all, lift them up in prayer to the Lord.

Because ole Bill Withers knew what he was talking about when he sang: “Lean on me, when you’re not strong, and I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you carry on, For it won’t be long, ’til I’m gonna need, somebody to lean on.”

“That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another. And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it.” (I Corinthians 12:25-26)

(Click on the link below to hear the old classic, “Lean On Me,” by Bill Withers. Great song!)

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