Tribute to My "Uncle Junior"

I grew up in the foothills of the beautiful mountains of Upstate South Carolina.  You don’t think about the mountains when you see them every day, but they are always there, strong and stately, majestic and colorful, forming the background of your life.  I didn’t think about those mountains until I moved to another part of our state that has no mountains and very few respectable hills and I realized how much the mountains of my childhood added to my life. 

Until a few days ago, there hadn’t been a day in my 61 years that Dortcha Smith, Jr., or Uncle Junior as I grew up calling him, wasn’t a part of the landscape of my life.  And it’s not until I received word that he’d finished his earthly race and had gone home that I began to think about the strength and the color he added to my world. 

Uncle Junior, like my dad, married into the Hester family of five daughters and two sons.  The Hesters liked to visit each other.  I remember many drives from our home in Greenville to Buddy Avenue in Greer, a journey which, in those days, took you through the country, not the sprawling suburbs.  With no cell phones, social media and only three television channels, we made time to sit and talk to each other, to talk about our lives and enjoy our families.  When we would go to Uncle Junior and Aunt Thelma’s house, I’d hear him talk about how his garden was doing and some car he had bought because he knew he could fix it up and resell it for a profit.   

Other times the entire Hester family would gather for a kind of conversation convention.  These usually took place at my Uncle Horace and Aunt Francis’ home, because my grandmother lived next door and could supervise the proceedings.  Big group meetings were segregated by gender, though being a young child, I had clearance to wander back and forth between groups.  The Hester sisters and their older daughters would gather inside the house and facetiously compete to see who had the dirtiest house, least money, and craziest husband.  The men, most of them Hester sister spouses, would sit outside, reminding me of a group of men sitting on a bench at the mall waiting for their wives to finish their shopping.  It was in this circle, this Hester husbands support group that Uncle Junior would shine.  When that big grin would spread across his face, you knew he had a story to tell.  It might be a one-liner or a slowly developing story, but you knew the punch line was coming.  And if you thought the joke was funny or not, you had to be entertained by how deeply convinced Junior was that it was funny. 

He brought a smile and a laugh to every place he went and every person he met.  When I think of my Uncle Junior, I think of words Paul wrote to Philemon,

(Philemon 1:7) Your love has given me great joy and encouragement, because you, brother, have refreshed the hearts of the Lord's people.

Dortcha Smith, my Uncle Junior, was a Minister of Joy because he so often refreshed the hearts of God’s people.  He reminded us often that life is a gift and a miracle, a journey we were meant to enjoy, not just endure. 

Many of my Uncle’s loyal customers at his barber shop walked out feeling better about life, not just because their hair looked better, but because, while in that chair, they’d seen a big smile, heard a good story, and shared a good laugh. 

My dad often sat in Junior’s chair and usually had some story to share with the rest of us when he got home. 

My brother, Barry, received his very first haircut at Uncle Junior’s shop.  We have the pictures to prove it. 

My Uncle Junior was involved in a first in my life too; not a haircut but something more important for my future.  Junior gave me the first invitation I received to speak at a church other than my home church.  I was fourteen years old and he was in charge of arranging programs for Pleasant Grove’s Baptist Men.  He invited me to talk to them about an experience I’d had with illness and God’s healing grace.  I still have the notes I prepared for that evening.  I was so nervous I read the wrong scripture.  I don’t think my talk planted any new ideas in the minds of those Baptist Men.  But I cherish the confidence my uncle had in me to welcome me into his church to share.  That gave me more confidence as I grew to understand what I felt called to do with my life. 

Junior cherished family.  I remember when he became a grandfather because the topic of his stories shifted from the funny things people say and do to the most adorable brightest and most beautiful grandchildren ever to set foot upon the earth. 

And I remember a time he helped our family through a tough time.  My dad was a patient in the Veteran’s Hospital in Oteen, NC and had been there for several weeks.  With him unable to work and provide, our family was struggling to get by.  I just happened to walk into our living room one evening to see my mom’s siblings and in-laws standing around her.  Tears were rolling down my mother’s face.  My Uncle Junior had his wallet in his hand.  With his other hand, he was pressing a stack of cash into mom’s hand, reassuring her that everything would work out. Things did work out, because we belonged to a family that supported each other in life’s tough times. 

My Uncle knew his own tough times.  He and my Aunt Thelma faced every parent’s worst nightmare in losing a child, my Cousin Rick, in death.  That loss also left my Cousin Pam an only child and the sole caregiver for her aging parents.  Pam, how you shouldered that mantle.  How you gave yourself daily to caring for your mom and dad through tough choices and heartbreaking changes, through times when they hardly knew who you were, but you never forgot who they were. 

You loved them all the way home.  We honor you for that today.  One day, on heaven’s shore, they’ll thank you for honoring them through your sacrificial love.

When I remember Dortcha Smith, I’ll smile.

And so will many of you.

What a great way to be remembered!