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When I called his mother, she told me they had helicoptered Chad to John Sealy Hospital in Galveston. I had no idea just how serious he was until she added, “The report is that he has mangled his lower leg and is in a fixator.”

When I heard the word fixator, I knew I had to see him. I would have gone anyway, because he was a member of South Park. But the word fixator gave extra urgency.

When I walked into his room, Chad lay there depressed, and he obviously didn’t want to talk. This wasn’t the Chad I knew. Before that, he’d always been glad to see me, and his face would light up in recognition. This time he acknowledged my presence but made no effort to engage in conversation.

“Are you okay? Are you going to be all right?” I asked and then looked at his leg. “I see they gave you a fixator.”

“Yeah, they did,” he said.

“Chad, you remember when I had my accident? That’s the same thing they put on me.”

“Really?” he asked. For the first time he looked at me with interest. I don’t know if he’d never seen me with mine or if he just didn’t remember. I leaned closer and said, “Just remember this: I know what it feels like to have one of them.”

His injury was on the lower leg. Because there are two bones in the lower leg it’s less difficult to heal. As I learned before I left, his prognosis was very good.

I was able to talk to that boy, hold his hand, and pray with him in a way that made him realize I identified with his plight. For the first time, he had a sense of what he had to look forward to in his treatment. Until then, like me after my accident, no one would give Chad any specific information. Like me, he felt angry and depressed.

“The pain will last a long time, and the recovery will seem to last forever, but you’ll get better. Just remember that: You will get better.”

And he did.

Cancer claimed Joyce Pentecost one week before her thirty-ninth birthday. I loved her very much. She was married to Eva’s brother Eddie and left behind two beautiful redheaded kids, Jordan and Colton.

Not only was Joyce one of the liveliest people I’ve ever met, and a fireball of a singer, but she could also light up a room by merely entering it. She rarely just sang a song; she belted it in the great tradition of Ethel Merman.

I felt honored to speak at her memorial service at First Baptist Church of Forrest City, Arkansas. More than six hundred people packed the auditorium. Because Joyce had recorded several CDs of Christian music, she left a legacy for the rest of us. On that sunny afternoon, we heard Joyce sing her own benediction.

Following her recorded music, her father, Reverend Charles Bradley, delivered a message of hope and salvation. He told the crowd, “Years ago Joyce and I made a covenant. If I went first, she would sing at my funeral. And if she went first, I would speak at hers. Today I am fulfilling that promise to my baby girl.”

That moment still stays with me. Melancholy smiles broke out, tears flowed, but I don’t think anyone felt anger or hopelessness.

After Joyce’s father concluded his message, it was my turn to speak.

“Some may ask today, ‘How could Joyce die?’” I said. “But I would say to you the better question is, how did she live? She lived well, beloved. She lived very well.”

I told the hurting throng that Joyce was a redheaded comet streaking across the stage of life, that she lived and loved to make people happy, that she was a devoted friend, an ideal daughter, a doting aunt, a sweet sister, a loving mother, and a wonderful wife. I admitted freely that I didn’t have the answer to the question that must have penetrated many hearts in the room: Why?

“There is comfort when there are no answers,” I said. “Joyce firmly believed that if she died, she would instantly be with God. She believed that if she lived, God would be with her. That was her reason for living. That can be our reason for carrying on.”

I concluded by sharing one personal moment. The last extended conversation I had with Joyce before she returned home from the hospital was about heaven.