MY JAMES
If you call him Carroll, you’re either family or a longtime friend. James and I met in this very same place almost 70 years ago—not the same building, but the original Highland Baptist Church, where my dad was pastor. He spoke often of memories from Sundays at Highland with his family and his good friends Ron Newman and Bill Monday. I’m sure at that time, he didn’t notice the preacher’s black-haired daughter. But a few years later, in 1956, after we had moved to North Acres Baptist Church, he noticed the preacher’s daughter singing in the choir, wearing a yellow dress.
In December of 1956, we had our first group date with our Sunday School class at a church Christmas party. I was 13; he was 16. The following fall, James called and asked if I would go to the movies with him. I asked my mom, who told me to call my dad at work. I did, and he said, "I’ll leave the decision up to you to do what you think is right." Of course, I said yes—and it was the best decision I ever made. For the next six years, we had a date every Friday night and saw each other every time the church doors opened. If my dad was preaching a revival, James was there. When I was 19 and he was 22, we were married at North Acres—the same church where both of us had been saved.
James couldn’t get a good job because he hadn’t finished school. A couple of humiliating experiences in the 5th grade had crushed his spirit. Once, he tried to harmonize during singing—like his mom, dad, and aunts and uncles—and the teacher said he was off-key. Another time, he "borrowed" a pair of binoculars from the teacher’s desk that had been left behind by a student who transferred. A big scene was made, his mother was called to the school, and she cried. That broke him. He refused to study from that point on. He read constantly, but only what interested him. As long as he didn’t cause trouble, the teachers passed him along.
In 8th grade, James was homebound with rheumatic fever. He was assigned a teacher and learned a lot during the five months he was bedfast. He later started at Central High School but dropped out in the 9th grade. He spent more time fishing and hunting than in the classroom. Most nights were spent riding around with his best buddy, Sherrill Greer, getting into mischief. James always said it was a praying mother that kept him safe during those years.
So when we got married, he was a high school dropout working at Standard Knitting Mill, running a knitting machine and making minimum wage. He hated it.
About four years into our marriage, one of his bosses at Standard encouraged him to get his GED and try to go further. By then, we had Pamela and Byron. He took the GED, passed it, then passed the college entrance test and enrolled at the University of Tennessee. He started college essentially with a grade-school education. Four years later, in 1970, he graduated with honors. That fall, he began a 30-year teaching career—first at Mascot Elementary, then East Knox, and finally Carter Middle School.
James loved teaching History, but more than that, he loved teaching the Bible. He served as a faithful deacon and Sunday School teacher at House Mountain, Union, and Highland Baptist Churches. It didn’t matter if his class had one person or forty—he prepared the same, writing most of his own lessons.
James was a praying man. He prayed for our children and grandchildren even before they were born—that they’d make wise decisions, marry well, and live for the Lord. I saw the fruit of that during his illness. More than just saying, "I love you, Dad," our kids said, "I’m praying for you, Dad."
The lowest and most broken I ever saw him was during Pam’s illness and death. He grieved deeply. He wanted her picture beside his chair. Often he would say, "I can still see Pam coming around the corner from the kitchen saying, 'Where’s Mom?'"
James was a man of few words. I once tested how few. On a trip home from visiting Jennifer in Chattanooga, I decided not to start a conversation to see how long he’d go without speaking. Two hours later, we pulled into the driveway—no words exchanged. But though quiet, he was full of wisdom. He wanted his children to live with integrity and without regret.
We shared 53 years of a good marriage, and I cherish every one. It broke my heart to watch the cancer ravage the body that had been my rock since I was 13. He wasn’t afraid of death. He told me he only wanted healing so that others’ faith would be strengthened by it.
This is just a glimpse of the man I loved—and the memories I’ll hold dear until we are reunited again.
