Now, let me start by saying this might be the least interesting story you hear all day. Seriously, you might as well stop reading right now. Oh, you’re still here? Alright then, buckle up because here comes a tale straight from the heart—and don’t you worry, there’s a bit of humor sprinkled in to sweeten the sorrow.

Let’s go back in time for a minute. Picture it: the late 1970s. Disco might be dying, but my friendship with Betty Jenkins was just coming to life. We were two peas in a pod, as thick as thieves. We did everything together—Bible studies, leading the church youth group, you name it. Betty had a laugh that could light up a room and a heart bigger than a Sunday pot roast.

Small Town, Big Hearts

In our tiny town, friendship wasn’t just a luxury, it was a necessity. We grew up in an age where you’d better know your neighbor’s business, not for gossip’s sake, but because you might need to borrow a cup of sugar or a helping hand. Betty was more than a friend; she was my extra pair of hands and my sounding board for every little (and big) thing.

We sang in the church choir together. Folks in town still talk about our rendition of “Amazing Grace” that could practically shake the rafters. More than that, Betty was my confidante, especially when my Harold came down with that awful flu of ’85. If not for Betty’s unwavering support during those tough times, I probably would’ve gone to pieces.

The Horrible Year

Now, fast forward a few years to 1997, a year I swear was the devil’s handiwork. It began with an unsettling chill in the air, the kind that makes you pull your coat a little tighter and say an extra prayer for good measure. Betty started to feel under the weather, but we just assumed it was one of those stubborn colds. You know the kind, where you drink six gallons of chicken soup and wait it out.

Turns out, it wasn’t just a cold. Betty was diagnosed with a rare illness that shook us all to the core. Our beloved doctor, bless his heart, did all he could, but God’s plan was different. When Betty took her leave from this world, it was as if someone had taken a piece of my soul with her.

Coming to Terms

The day I truly realized Betty wasn’t coming back wasn’t at the funeral, though that was heart-wrenching. It was a few weeks later when I caught myself picking up the phone to call her about the latest church fundraiser news. It was a rainy Wednesday, a day meant for cozying up and chatting with your best friend. My heart sank when I remembered I wouldn’t hear her voice again.

I sat there, phone in hand, staring at the number I could dial in my sleep. Tears started to fall; it was as if the dam holding back my grief had finally burst. Isn’t it funny how the simplest moments are when the reality hits the hardest? Here I was, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary day, and boom! It hits you like a ton of bricks.

The Healing Power of Faith

Dear readers, don’t mistake my tears for weakness. If anything, those tears were a sign of the deep, unwavering love and friendship that Betty and I shared. My faith carried me through. Why wouldn’t it? When you’ve got the Good Lord on your side, there’s nothing you can’t face. I prayed every night, asking God to help me keep her memory alive, but also to allow me to move forward. And He sure did answer.

Healing took its sweet time, as it always does. But I found comfort in small things: a well-worn Bible passage, a favorite hymn, a comforting casserole brought over by a kind neighbor. The kindness of others became my balm, and slowly but surely, I started to smile again.

Betty’s legacy didn’t leave our town. Oh no, she still lives in the hearts of everyone who knew her. Her deeds, her laughter, her faith—it all remains. Though she’s not here in person, her spirit sure likes to hang around. Sometimes, when I sit on my porch with a glass of sweet tea, I swear I can hear her laughter mingling with the sounds of the cicadas. And you know what? That makes my heart happy.

Moving Forward with Love

You might be thinking, where’s the funny part, Mary? Well, life has its own brand of humor if you know where to look. Like the time I found Betty’s old choir robe and remembered how it wouldn’t zip up one Easter Sunday because of all the donuts we’d sneaked from the church basement. Or when we tried making homemade jam and ended up with a kitchen disaster that would put any modern cooking show to shame.

These memories remind me that friendships like ours don’t just vanish—they change form. Now, instead of calling Betty, I talk to her through my prayers. I keep her spirit alive by sharing our stories, our laughter, and yes, even our tears.

So, my dear readers, don’t let grief darken the beautiful memories you hold. Cherish the laughs and the love. And if you’re still here at the end of my story, thank you for letting me share a bit of my heart. Maybe this wasn’t the least interesting story of your day after all.

Until next time, God bless you all.