Remembering Col. Kenneth R. Wade | “The Crying Soldier”

July 21, 1945 – February 20, 2016

On Saturday, February 20, 2016, Col. Kenneth R. Wade stepped out of this world and stood at attention before his maker. I will not pretend to know what happened in that exchange. I would like to think, in my mind’s eye, that as Kenny reported for duty, God was ready with orders, for another of his soldiers had come home.

I would like to share some of my recollections of a man who I counted as a friend and some of the lessons I learned because of him.

The Meeting

When I met Col. Wade, I was a young man who had just begun attending Bethel Missionary Baptist Church in Bulloch County, Georgia. I will never forget interacting with him in those early months. He had already retired from serving in the U.S. Army National Guard, but I could tell that he was a soldier. As an Army brat, I could see it in the way he walked and carried himself. I could hear it the clear and distinguishable way he spoke. He was man who know how to give orders.

I would later become an associate pastor and would serve that church for two years. During that time, I learned that I could count on Bro. Kenny. He was there to offer encouragement and words of wisdom to a young pastor. I enjoyed getting to know him and his wife, Linda, and his son Brian. I would meet his other son, Jason, later on, and we have now become good friends.

I did not know then, how important a role the Wade family would play in my life. But, God knew and orchestrated the meeting in a small, rural church near Statesboro, Georgia. As is the case, life pulls you in different directions and still, after all of these years, I hold onto the cherished memories made in a time now since past. They flood to the surface, as they often do when we are forced to remember by the tragedy of death.

Col. Wade helped me to navigate the early days of my journey in ministry in ways I did not understand and am still learning and that is debt I can never repay.

The Eagle

For those who may not know, the rank of Colonel is designated by a silver eagle. Sometimes called a “full bird” colonel to distinguish this rank from that of the preceding one, a lieutenant colonel. It marks a remarkable achievment in a military career. One of the results of the military life, if you have ever been around military personnel, is it is difficult to miss the distinct imprint of the military on a life lived by a clear set of rules. Col. Wade was no exception.

What most people do not understand, particularly if you were not a part of a military family, is the effect this has on the dependents. On a couple of occasions, I heard Kenny describe some of his regret for how his career had affected his family. This, too, is something I have seen as common among service men and woman across the branches. As I remember these moments of transparency, I also saw that there was something else, something not quite so easy to detect, that seemed to percolate underneath the surface. There was a growing realization that all of his training had not lent itself well to being a husband or a father—or so he seemed to fear.

He was not a bad man, by all accounts he was a good man. I don’t even think most people, if any, would have agreed with him on his alleged failures, and I remember wondering to myself, if such a good man struggled to be a good man, then I needed to be ready and willing to fight for my own family as well. I recognize now that this was a personal and internal struggle. One that I better understand today and only observed then. One that could be seen in and through everything he did. He had not failed his family. It seemed to me like he was overcoming some perceived failure in his own expectations of himself. His journey toward the eagle had taught him how to persevere and how to fight for what he loved and believed in.

I am not sure that he would have described it in this way. These are more my reflections on those conversations and his example over the years.

The Tears

If there was one thing that astonished me about Col. Wade, it was that the man could start crying at the drop of a hat. If you knew him for any length of time you would know this to be true. When he talked about his wife and family. When we talked about his cadets. When we talked about his faith. I have known passionate people. But, Col. Wade was one of the most compassionate men I have ever known.

When Kenny cried as he talked about those things important to him, it was not weakness. It was resolve. It was the physical expression of the depth of his conviction and faith and love. When he spoke about these things I wanted to listen. I wanted to glean as much wisdom as I could because I knew he was speaking from a depth of experience. There was so much truth. Not the kind of a philosophical nature. It was the truth of experience. The truth that comes from having walked life out in the real world.

As is the case with all instances of death, I am saddened by the loss. I do not feel the weight of this as deeply as those closest to Kenny. I can only offer these reflections and these words as a sign of solidarity in mourning.

I find hope in the fact that Kenny’s faith and my faith in Jesus can bridge the time between his departure and our reunion. I will miss the stories and the voice. I will miss the passion and compassion. But, I think most of all, I will the tears from the crying soldier.

“The High Cost of Love” | Remembering Frank Thompson

julie and frank

Frank LaDon Thompson

August 19, 1969 – October 14, 2015

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting at home watching a baseball game when I found out that my friend Frank’s journey here on earth had come to an end. He died due to complications related to his heart and kidney transplant surgery.

The sensation of numbness washed over me like a wave. And then another came. And then another.

It is always surreal to hear the news of a death. There is the finality of it all. Knowing that the next time you think about them, all you will have are the cherished memories you made with them. Knowing that you will not be able to call or text or message them. Knowing in a way that, quite literally, takes your breath away. Where you voice catches in your throat and you experience that waves of sadness wash over you again.

It’s always worse at the beginning. The power and weight of the waves seem to not let up. You struggle to find your bearings or even catch you breath. You feel like you are drowning, even wondering if that would be better than this. Anything would be better, or so it feels at the moment.

I met Frank and Julie while I was serving as the youth pastor of the First United Methodist Church is Cordele, GA. I did not know them all that well. Cordele First was Julie’s family’s home church. I had known her youngest sister from college, something I found out later. And one day while at the church Julie asked me if I would be interested in officiating their wedding. Honestly, I cannot remember why they asked me to do their wedding. We had crossed paths at the church during their visits but, I don’t remember doing or saying anything that impressive or memorable. Nonetheless, they asked and I accepted.

We did their marriage counseling over Skype and I knew that these two were good people. The kind of people who make you feel accepted and cared for. The kind of people who know how to love. They loved deeply, sincerely. With every fiber of their being they gave of themselves to each other and to those who accepted what they offered.

I knew they were going to make it as a couple and a family because of the way they laughed, both individually and together. I have always been an observer of laughter. What we laugh at tells a lot about us. But, how we laugh says even more. And Frank and Julie knew how to laugh. Those laughs, both distinct and unique. Both memorable. Both true expressions of the souls that saw the joy of life and love.

When I found out about Frank’s heart problems I began to pray. Many of us who loved them did. We saw the changes. We knew it was serious. So we prayed. We prayed because that is what we are supposed to do. And through it all Frank remained positive. Burdened by the reality of his situation, and yet resolute to love and lead his family through it. This he did like the man I remember. He promised to be there for Julie through it all. I was there when he made that promise. But Julie made a promise too. A promise she made to which she has remained true.

It may be something bred into the Adams women because they are strong. In Julie that strength is more like a fire. It looks calm and tame. But look long enough and you will see it. In meekness she fought the fight for life with her husband. She fought with him and for him until the end. There was no surrender, no backing down, no letting go. Not until it was time.

This is the high cost of love. To give of yourself until there is nothing left. To give to those who have captured your heart and whose lives have become indistinguishably intertwined with your own. When you love like this there is a price to be paid. And we pay it gladly. We recognize the risk and accept it because we would rather feel the pain on the other side of our present joy, than to have never felt the love at all.

The depth of our mourning is a measure of the quality of our love. Frank is being mourned by his wife, children, family, and friends today (and for days to come). We mourn for him because he gave us a part of himself and, now that he is gone from this world, we do not want to lose what he gifted to us.

I will continue to pray for Julie and the girls. I will pray for all of us who knew him. And, in the midst of the sorrow, I will find a way rejoice because Frank was a man of faith. He loved others with the love he himself had come to know. So, while I mourn, I want to also rejoice and remember my friend, not just because he died, but because of the way he lived his life.

This post has been updated.

The Lingering Effect of Death’s Assault

In Memory of

Jacob Carlyle Davis

August 20, 1986 – December 28, 2010

Two years ago my family experienced one of the most devastating events we had ever faced. Two years ago my brother-in-law died in a car accident. The “facts” of what happened simply do not have the ability to communicate the emotions that I feel this morning as I remember him and how much I miss him. His mom and sister (my wife) feel a different kind of pain. Their knowledge of him was intimate, personal and began from before Jacob entered into the world. When I met him, Jacob didn’t even know who he wanted to be. He didn’t know that he was supposed to become anything. He was a chubby kid struggling to make sense of the inhumanity of middle schoolers. I knew Jacob for more than half of his life. I think that’s what hurts the most. There is no more time for us.

I know what I believe about death. As a follower of Jesus I know Jacob is with our Savior. I know. I know Jacob loved Jesus and never missed an opportunity to share this with those around him. I know he loved helping others get over what ailed them. He was good at that. But, he is no here to help me! He is gone and I miss him.

All of the cute things that we say sometimes really don’t help. “He lives on in our memories.” Yeah, well memories have a tendency to fade. “His love will carry you through.” OK, thanks but, I’d rather feel the warm embrace rather than the cold recollection of a time gone by.

I woke up this morning and saw some of the comments of those who loved Jacob as they remembered him. I was overwhelmed by the flood of emotion that I felt as I read them. I have heard that the depth of our pain is a reflection of the love we had/have for those now gone. I guess I loved/love him more than I realized. This is the realization I didn’t expect.

Two years, and I still feel the lingering effect of death’s assault on my heart. Jacob may not have been my flesh and blood, but we were family. I have come to realize that I still miss him and that will be OK. There is no expiration date on love. For this I am grateful.

Previous Reflections

2011: An Anniversary I Do Not Want To Celebrate

Remembering James Bailey Bodrey | “Too Short A Life”

James Bailey Bodrey

April 1, 1994 – October 20, 2012

I found out about James’ accident this morning as I was getting ready for a meeting. I was shocked by the news that his accident required him being taken to Macon. In the span of a couple of hours the news was not getting better. The sinking feeling in my stomach increased as word began to spread. By mid-afternoon, the worst outcome from this entire ordeal was realized. James had died, and part of all of the hearts of those of us who cared for him felt as if it had died too.

There are so many emotions that come over you when someone you know dies. But, those emotions are intensified and are even worse when that person is younger than you are. My first reaction to the news was anger. I was angry that another young man had died before the prime of his life. I was angry because it just did not seem fair that James died. I was angry at all the crazy things that would be said in an attempt to make the family “feel better.” There is no feeling better about this. This event, these moments are horrible and none of us wants to even think about them for another second!

But, as the day went on I became angry at myself. I realized that I made the mistake (once again) that I promised I would never make. I was angry because of all those moments and days that I had taken for granted. Life is far too short to allow ourselves to drift through it. I was upset about all of this, but then something else struck me. What struck me was all the young men and women at James’ alma mater, Crisp Academy, who knew and loved him. I thought of them and to them I direct these next words.

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Dear Crisp Academy Student,

I do not pretend to know how you are feeling. For many of you, the shock of this will take some time to think through. My prayer is that as you think about James and his life, that you would also take a look at your own life. And think about never taking any day for granted again.

How do you take a day for granted? When you complain about what you would rather be doing, instead of enjoying what you are doing (even when it’s homework or sitting in a classroom). When you are wondering about what somebody else said and then waste all that time worrying and plotting. You will never get that time back, and it was spent on something that will not make your life better. When you are so preoccupied with what is coming next in life that you will completely miss what is happening now. These are all ways that we take the gift of each day for granted.

Every time someone younger than me dies I am reminded that life is a precious gift. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us. Every morning is an opportunity to give thanks to God for opening our eyes. I want to remind you, in spite of your young age, to remember that each minute of life is given to us to enjoy. Don’t waste another day doing anything that you will regret.

My memories of James come from going to Crisp Academy every Wednesday and seeing him walk into the lunchroom with that goofy grin on his face and those bigger than life ears sticking out from the side of his head. I can hear him cutting up and talking trash about some rival team or the “other school in the county.” I remember him enjoying being who he was. He didn’t really try to pretend to be someone else. That is what I will remember.

Take care of yourself, strive to truly live everyday, enjoy every moment and may God bless you.

Victor Scott
Youth Pastor
Cordele First UMC

In Honor of Dr. Ralph Lightsey: “He Stirred the Gift within Me”

I found out this evening that the father of a friend died yesterday afternoon. It was not unexpected. He had been under hospice care.

The news of Dr. Ralph Lightsey’s passing brought two memories to my mind. The first was hearing him preach in the church I attended and would later serve as associate pastor. I have always been an “educated” listener of sermons and preachers. I love the process of preparing to preach. I enjoy the act of preaching. But, when I am not the one given this task, I am amazed and overjoyed to sit under good preaching. Now let me clarify what I mean by good preaching. Good preaching does not have to be loud, long, perfectly crafted sermons. Good preaching is when I as a listener am convinced that the preacher is so convinced, convicted and constrained by their love of Jesus that I can’t help but go where there are taking me. Dr. Ralph was a good preacher. I don’t remember the subject or text, but I remember that I wanted more of what he had as a servant of God. There was just a clarity to the way he preached. You had to work at misunderstanding him.

I have excerpted a couple of facts about Dr. Lightsey’s life from his obituary that are just mind blowing to me.

Dr. Ralph Lightsey, a minster of 72 years, age 93, died on Sunday, September 2, 2012 at the Ogeechee Area Hospice Inpatient Facility. Born in Appling County in 1918, he moved to Statesboro in 1965, where he lived until his death. … After serving as an active pastor for more than 52 years, he served as a supply speaker at more than 50 churches in Bulloch and surrounding counties. In addition, he was an educator. He served 16 years as Professor of Educational Research at Georgia Southern University and as an assistant to the Vice President. Upon his retirement, the Board of Regents conferred on him the title of Professor Emeritus of Educational Research. … Surviving are his wife of 67 years, [Mrs.] Wavine… [Source]

I share this with you because of the second memory that I have of Dr. Lightsey. It relates something that he did for me as I was leaving that church I was serving. He had on several occasions commended me on my preaching. I was a young man, new in ministry and to hear such kind words from a man I respected and admired was not easy. (I still have a hard time taking a compliment about my preaching!) As I was preparing to go, Dr. Lightsey gave me two gifts. One was a book on preaching and the second was a pen and pencil set that you have on your desk. I still have both. The pen and pencil set no longer works and the book is still in my ever growing library. I keep them because of who gave them to me. They are precious gifts reminders of his concern for me as I developed in ministry.

I never made the time to thank Dr. Lightsey for his words and prayers. I am sad that I will never get to say how much it meant to me for him to take time and offer words of wisdom and encouragement. I do find hope in the fact that we shared a mutual faith in our Savior Jesus and that I will see him again.

I am so thankful for the way that he stirred the gifts that were within me. I will never forget.