Remembering Uncle Charles: Honoring the Anniversary of His Transition

This morning at breakfast, we reminisced over the life of Uncle Charles and shared a myriad of memories. It was my husband and sister in law, a couple of Uncle Charles's lifelong friends, one of his nieces, one of his God daughters, and me. Laughter and gratitude flowed in equal measure.

And as I sat there listening and sharing, I thought to myself, as I have been thinking for days now:

“What a life worth living.”

Uncle Charles was an ever-present force in my life.

But over the last 20 years, we became particularly close.

This morning, one theme came up again and again: the depth of conversation that Uncle Charles always brought out of people.

I remember once bringing one of my best friends from high school to Uncle Charles and Aunt Mary’s house.

He asked, “Who are you?”

She started to say her name, but he stopped her in her tracks.

“I didn’t ask for your name,” he said. “I asked you to tell me who you are. Your name is your name, but that’s not who you are. Who are you? Don’t tell me your name.”

We looked at each other, completely befuddled. That day, we were forced to look inward and consider the depth of our being. And all these years later, we still laugh

That was Uncle Charles.

Pensive. A deep thinker. Someone who could catch you off guard . . . and make you think in a totally different way. It could be startling in the moment, but afterward you’d walk away feeling like you had been given a new lens on life.

Uncle Charles always showed up for me.

He came to graduations. He supported my ambitions. He even surprised me last year by flying to Maryland to celebrate my birthday.

When I was in college, I would walk from Spelman to his office at Clark Atlanta on Fridays. I stayed with him and Aunt Mary many a weekend. On Friday evenings we usually had Aunt Mary’s fried catfish. On Saturdays, we’d hang out and catch up. And on Sundays, we’d go to church and then to a nice brunch, before they dropped me back off at campus.

They were my Atlanta parents.

During those years, and well beyond, Uncle Charles and I would have deeply intellectual, philosophical conversations.

He loved to stimulate the minds of others. And I loved that about him.

He was also so meticulous. I remember one time I asked him to review an essay I’d written for a study abroad program in New York. I brought it to his office. He read through it carefully, word for word, making lots of thoughtful comments.

Three things from that moment have always stayed with me.

First, he told me I was a very good writer. That made me feel good.

Second, he made a lot of edits. That made me feel even better.

And third, and this was the part I’ll never forget, he said:

“These are only suggestions. Use whatever edits you think enhance your paper.”

Uncle Charles had authority, but it was always balanced with humility. He didn’t dictate; he invited. He gave you agency and respect. Of course... I used all his edits.

He was intellectually brilliant, but he was also incredibly funny. And it seemed like the older he got, the more he appreciated good-natured fun.

About four weeks ago, I had the honor of driving him home from the hospital for what I now know was the last time. I had planned to grab takeout for him and Aunt Mary, but he said, “No, I want to go sit down and have a proper meal.”

I’m so grateful I obliged and we had that time together.

On the way there, I asked him to tell us some jokes and he did. We laughed so hard.

That moment is a gift I’ll always carry.

This past 4th of July, we had a beautiful meal at his and Aunt Mary’s house. I cooked for 7 hours straight that day.

It brought him so much joy to be surrounded by family.

None of us knew that just days later, he would fall ill again.

His last words to me, on July 8, were a soft, gentle:

“Hello, Cornelia.”

Those words play in my mind over and over. And they mean the world to me.

Thank you, Uncle Charles,

for showing me how to think deeply, live purposefully, and love with strength and gentleness.

Your words, your laughter, your wisdom: They echo in the quiet places of my life.

I am better because I knew you. I am stronger because you believed in me.

You taught me that intellect and humility can walk hand in hand. That joy and reverence can coexist. That faith is not just belief, but a way of living, a way of serving.

Your spirit lives on in every lesson, every memory, and every conversation we shared.

The way you lived, your life was a sermon in itself.

You were a force, a light, a presence.

And I will keep walking forward with the light you left behind.

Thank you, Uncle Charles.

Well done, good and faithful servant.