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Sardie stood on one side of his bed and I stood on the other. Her beloved husband, Cornelius, was saying good–bye in case the surgery failed. I leaned over and kissed his butterscotch–colored forehead. He was the first black man I had ever kissed. The discomfort that needled me during the early stages of our friendship was gone.

A few hours later, the man who called me his "adopted daughter" died. And there I was left to comfort Sardie, now widowed after 60 years of marriage. She had been there for me through grief and divorce; and now it was my turn to comfort her.

At the funeral, I sat in the "family section" at the church, and later I joined everyone at Sardie's home for lunch. "You're one of us," Sardie's daughter Val said to me sweetly that morning.

For me, a onetime racist, to be so lovingly welcomed into the bonds of this African American family was nothing less than a miracle of God. I marveled at the wonder of it all.

That morning the sanctuary overflowed with people of both races. A record number of blacks filled our predominantly white church. Many of our churches in St. Augustine, Florida, even today, are segregated. Silently, I chuckled. Cornelius had accomplished in death what he lived in life–loving people to God, in spite of their color.

He and Sardie were the first African Americans to attend our little Bible church. Years earlier, they walked through the solid oak doors, and gently erased the barriers of segregation with their loving kindness.

Love was the word used over and over, as both races eulogized the elegant spitfire of a man that was Cornelius Jones. And there was Sardie, in the front row, exquisitely dressed and wearing a hat as always. The petite fireball, who typically exuded remarkable strength, looked unusually fragile.

Through the years, Sardie expressed concern over a wide variety of social issues. She was troubled about the breakdown in African American families, the high rate of illiteracy, and the poverty that gripped so many in the minority community. With burdened hearts, she and Cornelius mentored young people in the church and throughout St. Augustine. Into their 80s, the couple taught the Bible and social responsibility to children in after–school programs. Their lives revolved around sharing faith, hope, and a sense of purpose with all races.

Sprinkled throughout the sanctuary that morning of the funeral were trophies of their efforts–people whose lives had been impacted over the years. They were college professors, Harvard Law School graduates, diplomats from the State Department, and at least one professional athlete. And there I was, a 56–year–old white woman, another soul whom the couple had nurtured.

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