Some of the richest events in my life have been happenings, moments that God in Heaven clearly planned but which on this end seemed spontaneous and proved to be lastingly rewarding.

Last Wednesday, I got word the mother of a friend had died and the funeral would be Saturday afternoon in Gadsden, Alabama. Larry Black, the long-time (now retired) minister of music at the First Baptist Church of Jackson, MS, and I became colleagues on that staff nearly 40 years ago and have remained friends ever since. I served in Jackson only 3 years before departing to pastor, but Larry stayed more than three decades. In the process he earned a reputation as the absolute finest worship leader in the country, period. I’m not alone in that estimation. He built an incredible music ministry in that church and worked with some of America’s greatest preachers in revivals and crusades.

Since we are about the same age, and both Alabama boys with similar backgrounds, over the years Larry and I used every opportunity to visit and talk about our raising and our parents and our kids. In seminary, he served the great Mid-City Baptist Church in New Orleans under Pastor Paul Driscoll, and developed a love for this town and an addiction to certain of its foods.

I needed to attend this funeral. Margaret and Neil agreed.

On Thursday morning, I drove to my Mom’s house out from Nauvoo, Alabama, some 2 hours west of Gadsden. Getting home is always a treat — there’s no place more dear. I was born on the spot where the house sits (the first house burned in 1954 and Dad built this one). Our family’s roots go deep in that part of the country and I have relatives for miles in every direction. My sister Patricia lives across the road from Mom; since Mom has mostly given up cooking, she reigns as the family’s chef. Younger sister Carolyn lives 15 miles away in Jasper and is up there almost daily.

I teased my sisters about something they had forgotten, thankfully, but which I will retain to my dying day. I call it “the worst night of my life.” I was 10 years old and our family had so much company that I had to give up my bed and sleep with my sisters. (Looking back, I wonder why I didn’t make a pallet on the floor or sack out on the couch!) Anyway, 12-year-old Trish and 8-year-old Carolyn insisted that the bedroom was theirs and they each owned their usual sides of the bed and that I was the intruder. That meant I had to sleep in the middle. Miserable is too gentle a word for how I felt that night. How I ever got through it is a wonder.

These days, no one could be more blessed than I to be “stuck between” these two sisters. I’m certain they love our two older brothers as much as they do me, but they sure do make me feel special. (Trish is the one who paid for the correspondence course in cartooning when I was a teenager; Carolyn is forever bringing me shirts and slacks she found at some sale somewhere!)

Friday night, Trish prepared my favorite, a fried chicken/biscuits/gravy dinner, and then they invited me along on their weekly entertainment.

Each Friday night, they drive to the community of Manchester, just out of Jasper, and attend an auction. I have heard them speak of this for several years, but this was my first time to tag along. Evidently the auction people scour the countryside for bargains — items like fishing equipment, kitchen utensils, household appliances — which they sell off for a fraction of the retail cost.

There might have been 75 or a hundred people in that little community center. In the back of the room, Katelyn and Kristian, teenage great-granddaughters of Paul, the gentleman running the shindig, sold soft drinks and nachos and the like. Before beginning, Paul led in prayer — we were in rural Alabama where the Christian faith is woven into every event of any kind — thanking God for Easter and the good news of the resurrection. Then, the auction got underway.

At a back table, I sketched people — at Carolyn’s request — and some victims dropped offerings onto the table for Zion United Methodist Church’s rebuilding fund. I bought grandson Grant a telescoping rod-and-reel; he’s nearly 15 and long overdue in learning the sport of fishing. All in all, it was a fun evening, completely unlike anything I’ve done in the last decade! Carolyn’s husband Van jokes that he’s going to have to build another storage shed on their property to put all the bargains she brings home!

Late Saturday morning, I drove to Gadsden, intending to be a mostly silent presence at the home-going celebration of my friend’s mother. Along the way, Larry Black called to ask if I would take a part in the service, with Scripture and prayer. The other minister was Pastor Sam Jones, the leader of their church nearly 50 years ago. Brother Sam had witnessed to Larry’s father on several occasions and a decade ago, returned to preach his funeral. He served a church upriver from New Orleans in Gramercy for over 30 years, so we were neighbors without knowing one another.

Having just written the article, “Ministering to the Minister,” I was curious to see who would come to comfort this veteran servant of the Lord who has served untold thousands over a long ministry. Our mutual friend Charles Carter was there, the great (retired) pastor of Birmingham’s Shades Mountain Baptist Church and one of the best Bible expository-preachers ever. Lavon Gray, Larry’s successor at the FBC of Jackson, was there, along with Robert Hederman, one of the church’s deacons. Two choir members of that church, Paul and Erma Jean — didn’t get their last names — were present, as were a number of members and at least one pastor from churches Larry and Sandy have served in interim positions since his retirement.

Larry said, “Joe, did you bring your sketchpad? I want you to draw Paul and Erma Jean.” We found a table in the mortuary’s coffee room and I set up shop. By the time of the service, I had turned out sketches of them, plus the three Black offspring (Greg, Allan, and Faith) with their spouses and a few of the more courageous relatives. (Later, when we met at the church for supper, I drew a number of others. I love doing this, you can tell, but was a tiny bit conflicted. I mean, haven’t these good people endured enough grief for one day without my adding to it!)

Just before they closed the casket and we adjourned to the cemetery, the brother who had provided the bulk of Mrs. Black’s daily care, spread a soft sweater over her, covering her dress and a few items the family had placed in the casket near her, including her Bible. “Mother was always cold,” the son told me. Larry smiled, “We buried her in her favorite house-shoes.”

Pure love. They received it from her for over 93 years, and now they were returning it in kind.

The Bible in her hands was turned to I Thessalonians chapter 4. Several verses were underlined, and at the top of the page, Mrs. Black had lettered, “Reunion.”

Sunday morning, I left Mom’s house early in order to make the worship services at the First Baptist Church of Columbus, Mississippi, where I served from 1974 to 1986, and where our three children grew up. I was delighted to see every parking space was taken for two blocks in every direction, and every seat in the large auditorium occupied. When the children’s minister brought her message, she was surrounded by 75 or 100 of the brightest, freshest, prettiest faces I’ve ever seen. I found myself envying Pastor Shawn Parker. Any minister would love to have these children as the next generation of leaders.

Shawn told of a father and son driving past a cemetery where workers had dug a grave in preparation for a funeral later that day. Seeing the open grave, the little boy said, “Look, dad — one got away!”

“That’s our message today,” Shawn said. “Death has claimed untold millions over the centuries but on that first Easter Sunday morning, One got away! And aren’t we glad!”

I was thrilled to see that so many families in the Columbus church were welcoming their grown children back for Easter, along with their spouses and small children. I lost track of the number of beautiful young families that walked up and in the process of hugging my neck, introduced themselves as children who had grown up during our years there. A foretaste of Heaven, to be sure.

“How many invitations for lunch did you get?” someone asked later. The one I “took” was with James and Diane Gatewood, special friends going back to late 1973 when James chaired the pastor search committee that brought me to that church. He’s semi-retired from his dental practice, I think, but they’re still teaching their Sunday School class. Sitting at lunch with us was son David and his wife Tina, and Nikki, a relatively new church member who is a native of Thailand. She told us how she was raised Buddhist and how she and her truck-driver husband knocked at the door of former pastor Bobby Douglas one night asking him to marry them. She was impressed that he would take no money for his services, but invited them to church. They came, she became a Christian, they joined, and now they are an integral part of the church.

Diane told me of a friend and member of their class who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer and is scheduled for surgery Tuesday (tomorrow as I write). I called her from the car and we prayed together. She (her name is Renee’ and we’ll appreciate your prayers) reminded me of a little poem from John Newton that has stirred her prayers in recent days. It’s worth repeating here—

“Thou art coming to a King,

Large petitions with thee bring,

For His grace and power are such

None can ever ask too much.”

After hours of driving through a hard-pouring rain — down the Natchez Trace to Jackson, then down Interstate 55 — I arrived home at 8:30 Sunday night, tired beyond description, but feeling so loved.

There’s nothing better than love.