Today I am thankful, grateful and blessed for having known and loved Joyce Brown Jackson. Born December 31, 1944 died April 28, 1983. 

I cannot tell you when I met her, but what I can tell you is that I loved her at first sight.  She was magnetic.  An unmistakeable personality, a woman filled with love for life and love for her family, but more importantly, love for her Jesus. 

I met Joyce around the time her melanoma had returned. I am still not certain how my mom found out about her, but I am certainly glad she did.  

Joyce had four boys and one girl. When I first met Joyce, I didn’t know her children.  Later, I would become acquainted with them and become fond of each one. 

Mom would take me to visit with Joyce. She would drop me off, and I would spend hours with her, helping do chores, talking, and helping her cook. Honestly, I think Mom was hopeful that being part of Joyce’s journey with melanoma would help me deal with the grief of losing my daddy to melanoma. 

I spent many hours and days with Joyce.  In fact, she’s the one who taught me how to know when pasta is cooked. One day I made spaghetti for them, and when I was boiling the noodles, she said, “Take one out and throw it on the backsplash.  If it sticks, you know it’s done. If not, cook it a little longer.”  A lesson I have always remembered. 

As Joyce’s health declined, some days I would simply sit and talk to her.  She dearly loved her family, especially her Jerry. He was her strength. Oh, how she loved him.  Her children were her lifeblood.  She loved them so. But Joyce had a confident faith, and she knew God was preparing her place and would come for her when He was ready. 

She became like a second mom to me.  I loved her. I loved spending time with her.  And when she became deathly ill, her family asked me to be with them in the hospital. I was with her and her family in her final moments of life. 

I was heartbroken when she died.  At her celebration of life ceremony, a gentleman stopped me and said, “I know who you are.  You are one of Joyce’s kids.” 

I quickly responded, “Oh no, I am not one of her children.  I am just a friend of the family.” 

He said, “Oh no, she told me all about you and she considered you one of her own.”

I put my hands over my face and cried until the tears were no more. Not only was I overwhelmed at the thought that she considered me as one of her own but again I felt the searing pain of loss.

Many moons have passed since her death in 1983 but the beautiful memories of her, I will always treasure in my heart.  The lessons I learned from Joyce were to love well, live life purposefully and soak up every minute because you never know what the future holds and if the noodles don’t stick put them back in the pot. And now, looking back, I do believe that it helped me through the grief of my daddy’s death; although I didn’t see it at the time. 

Her life is a great reminder that we are born with a birthdate and an expiration date but it’s what we do with our dash that makes the difference.