
From Your Sad Executive Editor and Publisher:
We’re saying goodbye. Our community is collectively mourning the loss of a man who was almost universally admired and respected. I’m honored that I was able to call Delbert Lovelace my friend.
I didn’t know Delbert the way many others did. He wasn’t my coach or teacher. He retired as superintendent before I transitioned from the grade school building to the junior/senior high building. He was a member of my church, but I didn’t really know Delbert and Betty until I married Jeane Burgess.
The Burgesses were friends with the Lovelaces…and the Sooters…and the Smiths, etc. We were very blessed that in the ‘60s a great many people came to Welch to live and teach school–and they stayed. Many of them attended the same church. They became friends and fixtures of the community, and I benefited from that when I married Jeane. I’ve always hung out with folks older than me (I assigned myself to the youth group at church before I was a “youth,” and most of my good friends are older). The same is true for many of our friends now.
We’ve spent many an evening at card parties and visiting with our elders who we’re glad to call friends. Delbert and Betty Lovelace are just such a couple. Many has been the Sunday night when we’ve invited ourselves over to the Lovelace home for a game (or two or three) of pitch after church. Betty would buzz around setting out snacks and pops on TV trays next to the dining room table before she and I would take on Delbert and Jeane. I’d get frustrated that Jeane would play so badly, especially if she and Delbert won, and Delbert would be tickled at how personally I took it.
We’d laugh. Oh, how we’d laugh. Delbert liked a good joke. He delivered some good ones himself. In fact, when we visited him in St. John’s last Sunday, though he was laboring for breath and we all knew there wasn’t much time left, Delbert cracked a couple good ones. He and Betty have sat in the pew behind Jeane and me forever. While visiting with Delbert, Jeane told him that though no one else may know it, she sits in front of him at church and she knows he can sing really well. Betty replied that he should have sung a special, to which Delbert said, shrugging with that mischievous gleam in his eye, “It’s too late now.” As I write that now, it seems very sad, but in that hospital room, at that moment and the way Delbert said it, it was hilarious. He had also told us when we arrived that he was ready to go home, and he didn’t mean Welch. Jeane told him when he got to heaven he should find her mom and say hi. I joked with him that he might have to look for her for a little while. Without missing a beat even though he was on oxygen, he said, “I’ll just listen for her.” Some of you know just how truly funny that was.
But there were more than those jokes between us in that hospital room. It’s rare that we get to say everything we want and need to say to someone before they leave. My wife and I got that opportunity last Sunday. Jeane cried as she told Delbert how much he meant to her. I got misty eyed as I told him it was an honor to know him and to be his friend. He looked up and told us to take care of each other and love each other, and we reassured him that we would—and that we’d also make sure Betty was looked after. Though talking was a struggle, he told us he knew she would be because Welch was a wonderful community to live in and the people here really care about each other. We agree.
It was a heartbreaking thing for us walking out of St. John’s knowing that Delbert was leaving very soon. Our friend was going to the home that he wanted. And we’re staying here in the hometown he loved so much. I posted an update to Twitter that lamented that we’re having to say goodbye to lots of friends, which is hard, but I am sure glad that we don’t mourn like those with no hope. And I am. Oh, we mourn, and we hurt, but we don’t mourn and hurt because it’s an end. We mourn and hurt because our friend is gone for a while, awaiting the day when Christ reunites all of us who trust Him by faith and are eternally His. That Hope sucks all the power out of mourning, hurting, and death.
Delbert Lovelace was a classy guy. He was a smart, honest, trustworthy gentleman who taught us how to live well long after he retired from the school system. And he loved retirement. I remember hearing him tell of some administrators’ meeting where he learned they were offering early retirement. He got out of the conference as soon as possible, found Betty at the hotel and said, “We need to talk.” And that was that. He was good at his job, and he was really good at retirement. He loved the golf course, and I played a few rounds with him. I’m terrible at golf and quit going because I hate slowing it down for everyone else, but he never grew impatient with my lack of ability.
All week long I have kept coming back to one part of Scripture over and over. In the Bible, Phillip wants his pal Nathaniel (also called Bartholomew) to come meet Jesus. John 1:47 (KJV) says, “Jesus saw Nathanael coming to him, and saith of him, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile!” Jesus proclaimed Nathaniel to be guileless, and that’s the word that keeps coming to me as I think on Delbert. To be guileless is to be without deceit. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who was as utterly guileless as Delbert Lovelace. There wasn’t an ounce of deceit in him. He was who he was, and he felt no need to impress anyone. That impressed us greatly. He was who he was, and in being so, he was admired and respected. So much so, in fact, that our church would have made him a deacon several times, yet each time he was approached he graciously declined. Ironically, it was that humility in declining that probably made him an even better choice to serve. For many, the notion of turning down such an honor would be unthinkable. For Delbert, it just wasn’t who he was. He knew it was deceitful to pretend to be something or someone you’re not…even for a good purpose. Guileless.
I’ve been fortunate to have many friends in this life, and some were truer than others. I have known what it is like to be abandoned by people who were only friendly so long as it suited their purposes. I have known so-called friends who were strangely absent when the storms came. But, thankfully, I have also known friends like Delbert Lovelace, who stuck like a brother—and enjoyed it. I’m truly better for having known Delbert. I hope to honor his memory by reflecting some of his good qualities with my life. But for right now I’m just sad my friend won’t be stopping by for coffee when he walks down to get the mail.
Ed.
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