The sun was shining on the day we buried my grandmother, Eleanor. Not a cloud in the sky, not a rumble of thunder to mark her passing. Just that strange, steady warmth—like the kind she always carried in her hugs and in the folds of her soft cardigans.
She had spent nearly fifty years serving her church. Showed up early, stayed late, never asked for thanks. And when she finally needed something in return—rides to service, a visit, a little prayer—they gave her nothing.
My grandmother had been the backbone of that Southern Baptist church—organizing youth retreats, running Bible studies, baking meals for grieving families,
driving the church van through thunderstorms and across state lines for choir tours. She never waited to be asked. She just did it.
