The sun cast a gentle glow on the morning of my grandmother’s funeral, as if mirroring the warmth she carried in her soul. Her name was Eleanor—a woman who gave five decades of her life to her Southern Baptist church. She cooked endless casseroles, led youth Bible studies, drove the retreat van, and quietly funded scholarships for children whose names she never forgot. She showed up early, stayed late, and never once asked for recognition—until she needed them most.
At seventy-three, a car crash left her disabled. The energetic gardener who once rose with the sun now leaned on a cane to climb her porch steps, each movement echoing with pain. She reached out—for rides, companionship, prayer—anything to stay connected. But the halls that once echoed with hymns had gone quiet, and church leaders stopped answering the call.
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