In His Majesty's Secret Service

By Chris Murphy

In His Majesty's Secret Service is the memoir of a career agent with the United States Secret Service. Chris Murphy recounts a life nearly cut short by severe asthma. His parents were told to prepare to lose their son in childhood. God had other plans, and Chris never lost the sense of gratitude and enthusiasm that comes with second chances. It is to God's glory that he worked and succeeded. The Secret Service raised him to leadership, but he started public service in law enforcement as an Auburn, Alabama, policeman in 1978. Chris was involved in the full array of municipal police work, including having to shoot an escaped felon. As a Tennessee Bureau of Investigation agent, he worked major felony cases, including participation in the seizure of 1,200 pounds of 98 percent pure cocaine. By God's grace, he ended up arresting the kingpin and his accomplice without backup or adequate weaponry. Bad guys should never bring their daughters to work. In 1985, Chris joined the US Secret Service. He worked federal criminal investigations, including threats against the president and other protectees. He also guarded every president from Ronald Reagan through George W. Bush. He protected vice presidents, presidential candidates, visiting foreign leaders, and former presidents. Chris traveled to over twenty different countries and most of the United States performing his duties. Meeting President Ronald Reagan and Pope John Paul within a two-week period was exhilarating! Conversely, getting the second lady and her aging parent lost in France was demoralizing. A healthy sense of humor and humility are needed in such extremes. Fortunately, Chris has both. He taught terrorism, hostage negotiation, and protective intelligence in the Office of Training. Rising to retire as the special agent in charge of Alabama and Mississippi, Chris helped manage the events and consequences of September 11, 2001, and Hurricane Katrina. In 2006, Murphy's demonstrated leadership and innovation contributed to his postretirement appointment to Alabama governor Bob Riley's cabinet as director of public safety. After completing Riley's mission, Murphy was appointed to Mayor Todd Strange's cabinet bearing the same title over the police, fire, emergency communications, and emergency management agencies. He served seven years in Montgomery, bringing his total public service to forty remarkable years. His Secret Service encounters with history are unforgettable. Chris's passion for ethics, leadership, and his Christian faith provided courage to make tough, necessary decisions. It has been a truly fascinating career!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645448846

Book preview

How in the World Did I End Up Here?

In late April 2002, I received an assignment as detail leader for the president of Haiti in New York beginning on May 9, 2002. This meant I was responsible for the logistics of the visit and the United States Secret Service paperwork. I was chief liaison with President Aristide and his staff. Mainly, I would serve as the president’s closest personal protector. As second in command for the Birmingham Field Office for the United States Secret Service, I worked normal assistant special agent in charge (ASAIC) duties, as well as Foreign Dignitary-02-466-Haiti logistics, until departing for New York on May 8, 2002. The more I learned about this assignment, the more concerned I became.

According to my protective intelligence briefing, Jean-Bertrand Aristide was a controversial figure and had weathered much turmoil in his country. He was Haiti’s first democratically elected president. This Roman Catholic priest won the Haitian general election in 1990. However, in 1991, there was a military coup. Aristide was given extended sanctuary in Washington, DC, as a guest of our country and a protectee of the US Secret Service. The United States helped overthrow the military regime in 1994 and restore Aristide to the presidency from 1994 to 1996. He had just been elected for another term in 2001. New York had a large Haitian population, and it wasn’t clear who supported him and who might want him assassinated. This was only a two-day assignment, but it would not be easy.

President Aristide was obviously very accustomed to United States Secret Service protection and was generally cooperative. One evening his staff informed me that the president was debating an invitation to address a gathering on short notice. The function was in the ballroom of a New York hotel. There would be a large crowd of Haitians in attendance. I sent one of my advance agents to evaluate the crowd and the risk. The advance agent called back and, for the first time in my career, advised that the crowd was too unstable for the protectee. He strongly advised that I convince the president not to attend. There was no time to screen the crowd, and we weren’t sure who even organized the event. The crowd was raucous and spoke mostly French, so reading their mood was very difficult.

I personally spoke to President Aristide and advised him that we were concerned for his safety and urged him to decline the invitation. I could tell he wanted to go, but he considered my counsel. He advised that he would send his Haitian ambassador to the event to also evaluate the crowd and the risk. We agreed to wait for the return of the ambassador. The president, the Haitian ambassador, and I met as soon as the ambassador returned. He conceded it was a large and unruly crowd but felt it would be very politically advantageous to attend despite the risks. Of course, I countered. Eventually, President Aristide decided to go but assured me that he would do everything I asked of him.

My first request was to allow my advance agent to finish conducting an official advance before we departed. President Aristide agreed but asked that we expedite the advance because he was anxious to go. Then I made a call to the command post and asked for additional site agents to be dispatched to assist at this controversial site. Based on the above facts, I did receive additional site agents and a protective intelligence (PI) team. I also briefed my shift leader and shift agents that this might be a very challenging site and that I wanted the protectee worked very closely.

The motorcade there was uneventful but not the site. My site agent had briefed me that the president would be seated on stage, and there was a buffer zone between the stage and the crowd. This was very typical for our advances. It was a must for protection so that agents would have room to maneuver should there be an attempt to harm the protectee. When we arrived, the site agent left the ballroom to meet us at the motorcade arrival point and guide us inside. By the time we entered the ballroom again, there were no longer chairs on the stage.

President Aristide was led to the front row for seating. I didn’t like that at all. He was too close to the crowd, and his back was to them. I was caught in the middle. I didn’t try to stop the president, but I transmitted on the radio through my wires for the detail to tighten up on the protectee. I chose to stand between the protectee and the stage, just left of the dais looking over the crowd. President Aristide received a thunderous welcome. The advance agent’s initial report of crowd size and noisy confusion was right, but the assembly seemed to settle down some as a gentleman approached the stage’s podium to introduce President Aristide. He started speaking, paused, looked down, and then fell out. He hit the floor with a thud.

I immediately rushed toward the protectee, as did my shift agents. I was concerned that it could be some type of biological assault or a diversion. We surrounded the president, but he didn’t want to leave. This may sound insensitive, but the Secret Service won’t respond to any other member of a crowd in a medical emergency or even an assault. If we are on the main detail, all our attention and energy is focused on the protectee. Other members of the crowd reacted to the speaker who was still out cold on the floor. The speaker was revived and escorted off stage. Once again, we waited for the crowd to settle down, and then President Aristide went directly on stage and addressed the crowd. The entire shift was on highest alert.

After President Aristide finished his speech, he came back toward his seat, but the crowd was fired up. They began straining to shake his hand and begging to speak to him. The president loved the support and dove right into the crowd. The buffer zone was now completely gone. I was working his right shoulder as tightly as I could. The shift leader was on his left shoulder, and the shift agents were trying to control the crowd that, by now, was pushing hard into our formation. I finally yelled in President Aristide’s ear, I cannot protect you in this situation! I am taking you out of this room and to the limo! I was not asking, and he knew it.

He pleaded with me to stay and asked if we could go on stage to greet his supporters from that vantage point. It was a small portable stage, and Aristide was a very slight man. I was stressed, and adrenaline was pounding through my veins. I literally picked him up, hoisted him on stage, and leaped right behind him. The president started bending over to shake hands and greet what looked more like a mob than a crowd. I jabbed my hand down the back of his pants and grabbed his belt like a rope. I would pull him back toward me when the crowd started pulling him away while shaking his hand. It was a tug of war.

My shift was trying to control the crowd on this disorganized rope line. We had a PI team and the advance agent who did a great job of trying to control the crowd from the floor level. Without any doubt, this was the most stressful protective assignment I had ever directed. The crowd was crushing and passionate. A roar of French pandemonium deafened us as we tried to understand if the mood was rapture or rage. It was impossible to guess their intentions. Without advance screening, there could be weapons and uninvited enemies. The tumultuous history of this protectee raced through my mind. It was a chaotic situation that no Secret Service agent ever allows to happen. All the checks and balances of a normal visit were voided. We were down to basic body guarding instead of 360 degrees of holistic protection. It was a nightmare that could easily get much worse.

Not long after I began to work the protectee on stage, some in the crowd started coming up both side steps of the stage, attempting to greet and touch President Aristide from that angle. This meant my back was exposed to these people. Almost immediately, I felt a hand on my back, and in a deep voice I heard, I got your back, Boss! A huge African American Secret Service agent I did not know, but saw his lapel pin, backed up to me and started strong-arming people away from me. It looked like he was clearing human bowling pins. He did a phenomenal job in protecting me, as I was protecting the president of Haiti.

At some point, I sternly told the president that this was enough. We were going to the limo. We didn’t discuss it. I physically forced him toward the exit, and the advance agent, shift agents, and the protective intelligence team all covered us as we exited. I had never been so glad to be in the safety of a limousine. Once in the limo, I was prepared to hear the wrath of President Aristide for making him leave. Instead, he thanked me for keeping him safe and allowing him to stay to experience that support. The Haitian ambassador to America was in the back seat with the president. They were ecstatic at the enthusiastic reception and couldn’t stop talking about it.

Once safely back at the hotel, I heaped praise on the shift leader and his shift for the exemplary performance in the dangerous and stressful situation. They had never experienced anything quite like this either. We were all hyped up by the shock and adrenaline. I asked the shift leader to find out the name of that mountain of a PI agent who covered my back so well. I wrote his special agent in charge (SAIC) a glowing letter of commendation. It was a truly exceptional night.

In spite of the huge protection challenges, it was important to model good leadership and give credit to those who worked so hard. I played my part, but it was the entire shift, the advance agent, and the PI team that gave this story a positive ending. Aristide was Haiti’s president until 2004, when a coup d’état ousted him. He was exiled to Africa for seven years before he returned to Haiti in 2011. His story did not end so well but illustrates how serious the threat had been during this protective detail.

President Aristide’s story is not the reason for this book. It is the story so many have asked me to tell them throughout most of my life. How in the world did you end up here? What is it really like being a Secret Service agent and traveling the world, crossing paths with the famous and infamous world leaders and celebrities? No one could have ever predicted my future because, quite honestly, I wasn’t supposed to have one. Here’s the unusual story of how I experienced all these adventures.

Son of a Preacher Man

In 1956, my dad, Charles Hurt Murphy Jr., was a boogie-woogie piano-playing and singing nightclub entertainer in Birmingham, Alabama. He had a television show and recorded for RCA, Deca, and Coral Records. We lived behind Dawson Memorial Baptist Church in Homewood. Dawson was and still is one of the largest churches in the Birmingham area.

Coincidentally, my family and I would join that fellowship forty years later. I would end up teaching Sunday school with Alta Faye Fenton, the wife of Dawson’s pastor, Gary Fenton. They became good friends. Gary would have some influence in my appointment to Governor Bob Riley’s cabinet and become a great encourager in writing this book.

My parents, Chuck and Anne Murphy, were very active at All Saints Episcopal Church, located about six blocks away. Dad began to feel God’s influence toward the ordained ministry. With a wife and five children to support, he had to first go to college for an undergraduate degree. He settled into nearby Howard College (now Samford University), a Baptist school. Episcopalian/Baptist connections would be a common theme in my life.

When I was four years old, Mom and Dad loaded the family up and traveled to Alexandria, Virginia. Dad began his freshman year at Virginia Theological Seminary, and Mom carried the lion’s share of raising us kids. We lived in an old house freely provided by an elderly Episcopalian widow who was living in an assisted living facility. She wanted a seminary family to benefit from her assets, and we fit that bill. The house sat on a hill on Lorcum Lane and had lots of property with all kinds of fruit trees and plenty of places for kids to play. On snow days, when school was out, the Murphy gang was expanded to include our next-door neighbors and several other seminary families. My stay-at-home and helpful mom welcomed all to our place, which had the best hill for sledding. It probably was overwhelming for her, but the children thought it was wonderful. An added benefit was that the asthma I suffered my first few years disappeared in the new Virginia environment.

After seminary was completed in 1963, Dad was ordained to the deaconate, and the Episcopal Church assigned him to his first church in Brewton, Alabama. Brewton was a rural community in south Alabama. It was a perfect place for this new chapter in our family life. My oldest sister, Donna, was at Vanderbilt University, but the rest of us had great memories of Brewton. My two older brothers, Chuck and Tim, were active at T. R. Miller High School and St. Stephens Episcopal Church. Like Dad, they were versatile vocalists and instrumentalists. They played guitars, piano, and bass fiddle. They even started a popular folk music band. I was closest to my sister Katy, who was just three years my senior. We were best friends as far back as I can remember.

Mom and Dad modeled what a good marriage looks like; they were both very close to the Lord, partners in ministry, and loving parents. They introduced us to Jesus and raised us in an authentic Christian home. The community welcomed the young Episcopal priest and his family like lifelong friends.

Brewton was a neat place to be a kid. We were walking distance to the church and there was a city park that edged up to the church property. There were woods to explore, and I could even ride my bicycle to Burnt Corn Creek to fish. I had several buddies that were always up for an adventure. Society was simpler and safer back then, much like fictional Mayberry. I would be gone hours on end with no adult supervision. Most everyone in town knew you, your siblings, your parents, and your business. Those town folks were not afraid to call you out and lovingly discipline you like you were one of their own. You actually were one of their own, so nobody thought twice about it. I felt loved and secure in this small Southern town.

I remember being in a very small boys choir at church. Dr. Herman Woods was our director. We needed to raise funds for new robes for the Christmas Eve service. Dr. Woods decided we would sell Christmas cards as a fund-raiser. That did not sound too fun to me, but when he said there would be a sales contest and the winner would get a Zebco 202 fishing rod and reel, I was all in. I was maybe seven years old, and I thought this thing through. I decided to ride my bicycle uptown and go straight to Mrs. Lucille Miller’s house. It was a real Southern mansion. Mrs. Miller was the most prominent and wealthy person I knew. My brothers attended T. R. Miller High School, named for her late husband. When I arrived, she was not home, but I decided to hedge my bet and ask her first. I sat on her front porch until she came home. She was surprised to see me all by myself but appeared very pleased. She said, Chris, what on earth are you doing here?

I told her about the church choir fund-raiser and then just blurted out what was on my mind. I really want to win the Zebco rod and reel, and so I thought I would hit the rich people first! Mrs. Lucille Miller could have been very offended and taken it out on my dad and the church. Instead, she burst out in peals of laughter and bought so many Christmas cards I easily won the contest and the Zebco 202 rod and reel. She delighted in recounting the story to my mother, who was a bit embarrassed but tickled. It was in this special town where I first remember events that confirmed that the God of Jeshurun, who rides the heavens to your help, really did help me, personally, in at least two powerful ways.

The asthma, triggered by serious allergies, began to recur once we returned to Alabama. This caused countless trips to the hospital, no vigorous activities, and much missed school during the critical primary years. Life was picture perfect except for that asthma thing. As the attacks became more frequent, I became a fairly fragile case. I still remember the feeling of not being able to breathe. I can remember the hospital trips, the oxygen tent, and carrying around an inhaler.

This happened with increasing frequency. Dr. Woods, my choir director, was also our family doctor and friend. He often admitted me to the local hospital but finally referred us to a specialist in Pensacola, Florida, because I wasn’t improving and actually worsening. After many trips to Pensacola for a variety of treatments, the specialist admitted that he could only treat my symptoms because there was no cure. He told my parents that I would probably not survive to adulthood. He wanted them to let go of false hope and prepare for the loss of their child. Not willing to give up their baby boy, my parents prayed for help. Our church and friends prayed for me. They heard about a cutting-edge specialist, Dr. Derbes, in New Orleans, Louisiana. Off we went to Tulane teaching hospital. Dr. Derbes agreed to take my hopeless case if we agreed to try an experimental treatment. A series of tests were conducted and evaluated. He created my individualized serum and sent shipments directly to our home.

My parents had agreed to this protocol, but Mom waited for the right moment to tell me. She sat on my bed one night as I was recovering from a bad asthma episode. She talked to me about this new desensitization process and all the shots I would have to take. I was scared of shots but more afraid of asthma. I agreed to try the allergy shots. I distinctly remember feeling a peace about it. Mom and Dad fully expected me to fight the idea of two shots every week for who knew how long. I was a little guy, not particularly tough or brave, but I had peace. I now know it was the peace of the Lord that passes all understanding.

We stored the vials of serum in our home refrigerator, and I delivered each vial to Dr. Wood’s office when it was time for a shot. It’s pretty unbelievable that a primary grade school kid was tasked with this, but again Brewton was like Mayberry in the early sixties. I was as free as Opie to bike around the town all by myself. Also, this was long before government regulations, HIPA, etc. I rode my banana seat, high-handlebar bicycle to Dr. Wood’s office twice each week to receive these injections. Even after Dad took his second church in Birmingham, Alabama, my shots continued. They were eventually cut down to once weekly, but I still missed much school, suffered academically, and had to avoid strenuous athletics. Miraculously, my God, who rides the heavens to your help, took me through my teen years. Before our move to Nashville in 1972, the shots were no longer needed. My lifelong awareness of God’s mighty hand and healing power was rooted in this.

The second childhood event that cemented my assurance of God’s help was the aftermath of a bike wreck. My buddy’s sneaker got caught in the wheel spokes as we sped down the steep hill to Burnt Corn Creek. The banana seat, high-handlebar bike stopped suddenly, but we didn’t. My buddy came through okay, but I was all banged up and left with a broken jaw. After initial evaluations and consults in Brewton, I was rushed to Pensacola, Florida, for a surgeon to wire my jaw shut. I distinctly remember the wreck and the hospitals. There were promises of many milkshakes, but I overheard talk of peas and other foods liquefied in a blender so I could slurp them up a straw.

That sounded awful to my young ears and made a lasting impression. My mom begged the surgeon to x-ray my jaw one more time before surgery. After intense prayer by my parents, family, and church, she believed God had healed the jaw. My mother’s faith was rewarded. The Brewton x-rays showed the broken jaw and the Pensacola x-rays showed a normal one! I remember those prayers and the adults rejoicing and describing the miracle of my healed jaw. It made quite an impression on me. Thereafter, I connected prayers to God with that miracle. I can never doubt His power. He truly touched me and made me whole.

Before this miracle, I was around prayer all the time. Our family prayed before each meal, but we also prayed around the kitchen table at other times. Mom or Dad would always pray with me when I went to bed. I never questioned why we prayed, nor did I question that God would hear and answer our prayers. I knew Jesus was my friend, but this healing was a firsthand glimpse of His power and might. The correlation was just too direct for anyone to miss, even a little child. My awareness of God’s presence and help in my life was a reality. It was a reality in my family, my church, and I don’t remember it being questioned in this Southern community. It was a profound event.

Dad’s next church assignment was in the Woodlawn section back in Birmingham. It was there that I became very serious about my relationship with Jesus. After I completed confirmation classes, Bishop Charles C. J. Carpenter laid his massive hands on my head, acknowledging the vows my parents declared at my infant baptism committing me to the Lord. Now of my own choice, I made my own public declaration of love and commitment to Christ. I became active in the Episcopal Young Churchmen (EYC), the church youth group, serving in local and state offices. Attending church camp at beautiful Camp McDowell was one of my favorite annual activities. When I graduated from high school, I enthusiastically participated every summer as a college counselor. My parents became more evangelical and charismatic. Dad developed and presented three-day teaching missions all over the South and then the United States. He was nominated for Alabama’s diocesan bishop and wrote his first book based on these popular teaching missions, the title, There’s No Business Like God’s Business (Abington Press).

My sister, Katy, and I drew closer to each other and closer to the Lord. We were growing up socially and spiritually as the last two siblings at home. She was my biggest fan and encourager. I wrote an English paper on my plans to pursue the Episcopal priesthood before my brothers graduated from the University of Alabama and entered seminary. Chuck attended the School of Theology at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee. He caused quite a stir by not backing off his absolute belief in the truth of the Christian faith. He encountered very liberal professors who were leading the charge of the Episcopal Church in becoming more enlightened. They questioned the fundamental authority of the Holy Scriptures, and Chuck was too solid in his faith to quietly accept their revisions. Tim completed Virginia Theological Seminary just like our dad.

I dated frequently during my teenage years, and those I dated were Christians either from our church or those I knew at Woodlawn High School in Birmingham. I was a normal kid, but one who still knew Jesus and took my relationship with Him very seriously. I didn’t try drugs or alcohol during my Woodlawn days but was popular enough to get elected to SGA positions. I was still no athlete but remember PE classes with the coaches immortalized in the movie Woodlawn. That was my high school era, and I do recall dangerous and uncertain racial conflict.

My family socialized with a very successful African American businessman, Louis Willie Sr., and his family in Birmingham during this time. He was a man of great faith and active lay person in the Episcopal Church. I became friends with his son, Lou, four years my senior. Since I was too young to drive, Lou offered the chance to double date, and I pounced on it! He was pulled over by the Birmingham Police Department with all of us in the car, and the reaction was pretty unnerving. The officer had both of us guys get out of the car without any explanation or reason. We were interrogated at length as to our reason for being out together, not related in any way to a legal violation. I remember thinking we might be arrested or beaten. It really was terrifying. The officer finally directed his attention to me. He wanted to know why I would be on a double date with a black couple. This was well before politically correct terminology was standard, and it was embarrassing for both of us. We were extremely relieved to be sent on our way with our dates, but I never forgot the ugliness my honorable friend and I saw that night. It was a small window of insight into the inequity of life for men of color, even one of great family, faith, and financial security like Lou. I just knew Lou was my friend and brother in Christ, completely undeserving of such disrespect and suspicion. The year 1969 really was a scary time in this country, and I saw it up close that night.

On a positive note, I was finally able to quit the allergy desensitization regimen. What a relief that was! I still needed to avoid mold, penicillin, cats, and feather pillows. With those restrictions, I was free of my asthma! God and Dr. Derbes helped me beat the odds and survive my teenage years.

The summer before my junior year in high school, my dad took his final church at St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church in Nashville, Tennessee. While I was not thrilled to go at that point, it was a very consequential move. In Nashville, I met my best lifelong buddy, David Price. Dominican nuns at a Roman Catholic Junior College did wonders for my academic deficiencies. I became a youth leader at my dad’s church and led youth retreats within the Faith at Work organization. I looked more seriously at God’s call on my life. I considered seminary but also explored the monastic life. I had no doubt that I would serve God in full-time ministry.

While in Nashville, Dad’s three-day teaching missions continued to flourish, and Mom started traveling and teaching alongside him. Katy went off to college, and I became pretty self-sufficient.

I continued to grow spiritually by attending Dad’s teachings and those of guests he brought in through St. Bartholomew’s Church. One was a priest named Father Anthony Gerald. He was an Anglican Monk within the Order of the Holy Cross, and he inspired me to explore a vocation in the monastic life. He suggested I start with the more conservative Benedictine Order, so I visited their Priory in Three Rivers Michigan. It didn’t take long to discover that seven church services (called offices), every day starting at 5:00 a.m., were not for me. It was terribly interesting and a stretching experience, but no, thanks. I did, however, visit and enjoy the Priory of the Order of the Holy Cross located in South Carolina. The idea of becoming a full monk didn’t feel right for me, but I stayed connected with the brothers through their associate program. Associates pledged to daily say their four common prayer services and make an annual retreat. I remained an associate and financially supported the order as long as I remained in the Episcopal Church. Years later, I even took my new bride to a retreat at their monastery. That was a huge stretch for my Southern Baptist girl who politely declined the chance to make her confession to one of the priests.

Nashville gave me the chance to meet David Price. We met in a mind-numbing health class and struck up a friendship. We both were ahead in high school academic credits because we transferred to Hillsboro High School our junior year. David worked at a hardware store, and I worked at a drugstore in the same shopping center. We got out of school early to work in the afternoons. Therefore, we typically had spending money and were open to adventures, though some were not well-thought-out. One particular night when I flipped my car and had a concussion, David stayed with me until my folks returned from an out-of-town teaching mission. He checked my pupils hourly through the night and into the next day. He was and has been a true and faithful friend for forty-five-plus years.

I started taking Isshinryu karate and did quite well. This was very surprising since asthma had kept me from testing myself in sports earlier. Humility was ensured as I mastered my skills with nunchakus, hitting my head so hard I nearly passed out. Another time I let them slip, creating a huge hole in my parent’s basement door. Despite numerous setbacks, I never lost my enthusiasm and earned my black belt.

David graduated a year early to follow Donna, whose family had moved to Atlanta. David pursued an accounting degree at GA Tech and Donna’s hand in marriage. My senior year of high school, I started taking some college courses at St. Thomas Aquinas Junior College. Traditional Dominican nuns, with the full black-and-white habits, or robes, ran Aquinas. I started doing well academically and responded to the love and accountability provided by the Dominican Sisters. After high school graduation, I decided to enroll full time at Aquinas. I got involved in the student government association and dated several of the cute co-eds. The nuns’ devotion added to my rich spiritual background. I didn’t want to join the Roman Catholic Church, but I had immense respect for them. They inspired me as a student and as a Christian.

After my sophomore year, I transferred to Auburn University. My closest cousins, Bob and Greg Blackwell, were already there. Bob, a Presbyterian by birth, began attending the local Episcopal Church with me. A very godly and influential priest named Bill McLemore was the pastor. Bob and I led the youth group at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church. Bob felt called to ministry and eventually attended seminary to become an Episcopal priest.

Auburn University was where I met the love of my life, Nancy Helen Buckelew. This was God’s hand; otherwise, we would never have met. Most of my blind dates were disasters. Nancy was different. She was a good-looking redhead with loads of musical talent and a quick wit. The first time I called her, our humor clicked. We were opposites in so many ways and an unlikely match. She had a beautiful voice and was president of the Auburn University Singers, an elite show choir, and I was a karate guy. She was a dean’s list student, and I forgot all about a final exam once, while riding horses. She was a small-town Baptist who had never tasted wine. Did I mention I was Episcopalian? She was a top ten finalist for Miss Alabama and a bit out of my league, I thought. However, we were both the youngest of five children and deeply loved all things family. We