A Tribute to Lucinda Secrest McDowell

Dear Lucinda,

Cindy.

For years, whenever I drove through Thomasville (your hometown), I’d send a text message to you (later on, never while driving) saying, “Guess where I drove through today!” You’d know, of course. You’d answer back, “Thomasville!”

The City of Roses had always been a connection for us, but it wasn’t our only source of binding. We go way back, you and I. I don’t remember the first time we met—I believe it was during the 1999 CBA/CLASS event—but we knew immediately that we were kindred spirits. Both born and reared in the fine State of Georgia. Both Southern-bred ladies, so we knew what’s what. We both loved Jesus and we both strove for the deeper things of the Spirit.

When the idea for The Third Path came to me, you were one of the first people I wanted to talk to about it. And when I did, you reacted exactly as I expected. After the book was published, you tooted the book’s horn, again just as I expected.

Only a few months ago, your best friend Maggie told me you were sick. Really sick. I “put on” my old nurse’s cap and listened to the symptoms, the diagnosis. I remember thinking, “Oh, crud…”

A few weeks later, my favorite (and yours, naturally) blogger Sean Dietrich (Sean of the South) wrote a tribute to you, comparing you to The Big Oak, Thomasville’s most-famous landmark . . . a Live Oak whose time here dates all the way back to the signing of the Constitution of the United States. As I read Sean’s column, I had to swallow past the knot in my throat.

Then, a few days later, you were gone … running to meet Jesus! I didn’t know whether to be angry with you for leaving so quickly or jealous of the picture in my head of you sitting like Mary at His feet. Listening. Asking questions. Listening. Man! Okay. Jealous it is.

I didn’t say, “goodbye.” I couldn’t right then. But when my family and I chose to stay in Thomasville for our granddaughter’s high school graduation, I determined that before I left town, I’d go to The Big Oak. I reasoned that it would be there, amidst the hopeful quiet of a Southern Sunday morning, I’d be able to say the word. Goodbye.

And so we went, my husband and I, which was fitting because that was the other thing you and I had in common—as soon as we married—instant family. And we were blessed by that.

When D and I arrived, there were two young men taking snapshots in front of the tree, so we parked several yards away and walked around a bit. I eyed the massive oak, studied its beauty. Yes, I thought, this place is perfect.

The young men left. D and I approached the tree from the back. I stopped to take some pictures, inching closer. We walked under it and around it, admiring it all the more. The temperature in the shade dropped, which I thought was a nice touch. Thank you for that; you remembered I simply despise heat.

Then D stepped away. My heart said, “This is the moment.”

“I came to say goodbye,” I whispered into the slight breeze. “And to thank you for years of friendship.” I nodded. Fought back tears. Sniffled a little. Nodded again. “So … until I see you again…”

I came from under the shade and there was D again. We snapped some selfies. Then I said, “Let’s go.” But before we could get too far, an entire cluster of bicyclists came gliding up. Noisy doesn’t begin to describe them. Obnoxious comes close. I had to remind myself that they didn’t know I was here to say goodbye. That this was, for me, a solemn moment. They didn’t know . . .

“Hey!” one of them yelled from the other side of one of the thick branches running along the ground. “Will you take our picture?”

I blinked a few times. Bit the inside of my jaw. “Sure,” I answered.

She began ordering the group to stand on the frontside of the tree. “It’s like herding cats,” she said, her voice gruff. I forced a smile. Finally, with everyone in place, I snapped photos on a phone someone had handed to me.

Life goes on, Eva Marie, I heard you say, speaking to my frustration at losing the solemnity of the moment. I didn’t have to wonder if it was your voice. It was. You always called me by my full name because, as you once told me, that’s what Southerners do.

Indeed, Miss Cindy. Life does go on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—we don’t, your friends down here—miss you. We do.

I reckon we always will. So I won’t say goodbye. I’ll go back to the last thing I said before life started back up again. “I’ll see you again …”