Miss Nettie became a widow at age 27 when her husband was killed during the last days of World War II. I met her when I visited relatives in Star City, Arkansas, as a child, and remember her as a dignified “old lady” (she was in her early 60’s). When she wasn’t growing vegetables, raising chickens, or sewing for her neighbors, she could be found at the First Baptist Church dusting pews, sweeping floors, and washing walls – with a mop, because the coal furnace produced soot that clung to the walls and beams behind the pulpit.
Kids in that little town loved going to Miss Nettie’s house. She always had “goodies” that consisted of everything from chocolate chip cookies to hard tack that she flavored with cinnamon, lavender, licorice, and cherry. We were drawn to Miss Nettie by her warmth and openness to receive any child on his or her terms. She always had a gentle way of turning the conversation to God. We found sanctuary on her porch where she would rock in her rocking chair as she snapped peas and listen to us talk about our fears, successes, frustrations, and wonder out loud about life itself. Miss Nettie was a “safe place” where every boy or girl found a mentor for their fledgling faith.
We thought Miss Nettie was “poor.” She didn’t own a car. She walked to church on Sundays, to the bank on Fridays, to the grocery on Mondays, and… who knows where else. Her clothes were clean. Her house was tidy, but she wore the same sweater all the time, even in the summer, and her shoes had holes in the soles. But oh, the sheer joy she exuded! She was happy to see the sun rise, happy to breathe in the rain-washed, pine-scented air, and happy to see us kids coming up her dirt path. She always hummed familiar hymns as she went about her daily routine. (It was she who informed me that the chorus to “Bringing in the Sheaves” was not “Shelling English Peas.”)
On Sundays, we kids jockeyed for position to sit beside Miss Nettie in “big church.” We observed how Miss Nettie placed a twice-folded piece of paper in the offering plate each week; never a coin or a folded dollar bill – just a piece of folded paper. I later learned that she wrote notes “to God” on those papers indicating what her gift to the church would be that week: a prayer for the sick, some blackberry jam for the pastor, a dozen eggs for a family in need, and so on. Her gifts were genuine gifts from her heart, no doubt inspired by her keen awareness of and sensitivity to her neighbors and congregation. Her giving, however, extended far beyond the words on those pieces of paper. She gave of herself, wherever she saw a need. Her creative way of gifting was a self-perpetuating source of joy – for her, and for the recipients of her many kindnesses.
Miss Nettie was the richest “poor” person I knew. When she died, some members of the church pooled their monies to pay for her funeral. Her legacy of spiritual wealth lives on in that community, and her generosity of self continues to inspire others in their good-deed-doing.
Have you known a “Miss Nettie,” or a “Mr. (fill in your own blank)?” We have them in our congregation! I see them when they show up to clean gutters, replace light bulbs, hang shelves for handbells, coordinate and serve meals, alter clothing, and fix vacuum cleaners. I also see those who serve on teams, make phone calls, prepare multimedia slides, and prepare the altar. I see them in the pews on Sundays, knowing full well what a struggle it must have been for them to come. Oh, how I thank God for them, and ask him to bless them – even as he blesses us through them.
(Copyright 2024, Lisa Wood)