Miss Eurie

In our Sunday class we discussed childhood mentors within the church and how they had impacted our lives. I immediately thought of Miss Eurie, who loved me and encouraged me throughout my growing-up years. (We pronounced her name “you-REE,” and in the South respect demands "Miss" before any woman's name, married or not.)

I don’t recall how we became so close, but part of it was that she and her husband Elmer were always there. Three services a week, dinners, VBS—whatever was going on, there they were. Since my family was on the same routine and our church on Sunday morning was only about a hundred people, we were together a lot.

Another reason was that she loved to laugh. Children are drawn to people who enjoy life, and Miss Eurie did. They had a tiny, modest home and very little cash, but they were rich in friends, family, and faith. She made witty comments and could see humor in many situations where other adults would frown.

And she talked to me. She didn’t grill me with the typical “How’s school?” type questions. Her questions and comments were real. They dealt with my family, my friends, my activities, my interests in 4-H and academics and earning money in her brother’s strawberry patch. She shared her own life interests with me.

Short, stocky, with a frizzy perm and wire-rimmed glasses, she was nothing like the women I admired in magazines. But her bright brown eyes lit up when I came near, and her sturdy arms were quick to give me a tight hug.

She had no deep spiritual philosophies on which to expound; she did not talk about her faith at all. She just loved me for me and let me know it again and again. Even now I get a warm, joyous feeling when I remember Miss Eurie.

At our church, I’ve followed the growth of Emma and Kayla from when they were newborns, just as Miss Eurie did me. Now that I’ve analyzed what I loved so about Miss Eurie, I have a better idea of how I can be Miss Eurie to Emma and Kayla. I’ll start right now while they are still in elementary school, laughing with them and hugging them and talking with them whenever I can.

The Numbers on the Door

I’ve always found it handy to tape significant phone numbers inside the cupboard door nearest the kitchen phone. There you may find current numbers, but also numbers of the girls on Kelsey’s 1994 softball team, of stores no longer in business, of friends or relatives long dead.

“I think all this needs to be thrown away!” Steve says when I go there to get him a list of favorite family entrees.

But I’m not discarding that cluttered mess any time soon. When I open that door, I’m briefly transported to a time when our house was busier, our schedules more hectic, our time not our own. I love the life I have now, but I loved that one, too. All those outdated phone numbers and lists remind me of the days when I was introduced as “Kelsey’s mom” or “Josh’s mom.” Those were good times, worth remembering—worth honoring for a few moments before this life picks up the pace and I’m off again.

More Life and Death

Another death, another friend. This one older, but her death unexpected. Her family is in shock. The doctor told them she had only two to four months to live, and they could see her struggle to breathe, even with oxygen. The next day, as they were processing "two to four months to live," she died.

Her husband of 60 years has come undone. Within two days, he gave away his queen-size bed and bought a single. When I heard this, I recalled his wife's story to a small group at a women's retreat for our church. She said that a few weeks before that, she and her husband had lain in bed together and read "Song of Solomon" to each other, bit by bit, night after night. There was a hint of a giggle as she admitted it. As young women, we received an entirely new concept of mature love--the example of these grandparents who loved deeply and were still deeply in love, who included God's word in showing love to each other. What a blessed memory for me!

But of course he can't stand that bed now. Too many beautiful memories turned painful.

He wants no funeral, no flowers, no food. He wants no celebration. He cannot face celebrating a life well-lived in the reality of his loss. He has grudgingly agreed to a brief service at the cemetery chapel, his son speaking. There is no obituary in the newspaper. I think he really doesn't want anyone but family there.

We have been with their extended family through baptisms, weddings, births, unwed pregnancies, divorce, and now death. We have seen their children grow in faith and love, their children and grandchildren become missionaries. We consider ourselves family. We will be there to grieve with them, while privately we will rejoice that our friend is now breathing freely in God's own air.