B193. Remembering Betty Fellows

When I came to First Presbyterian in 2012, knowing almost no one, one of my most welcoming and real connections was Betty Fellows. I had joined Betty’s Sunday School class, and we soon learned that we had the same birthday. She was 82, and I was, to the day, exactly 32 years younger. We called each other “my Birthday Buddy,” and every year, except for a COVID year or two when everyone was isolating, we celebrated together, sometimes just the two of us going out to lunch, other times other friends would join us. I often joked with her that we were twins, or that we were college roommates, because we attended the same college - also years apart.

Almost from the beginning, she would sit with me in worship, and I remember well my first Sunday of communion there. Before First Presbyterian, I had been visiting different churches, and it seemed that they all had their own distinct rituals of how communion was administered. Before the service started, I was feeling a little tense, not knowing what communion procedure to expect. Sitting beside me, Betty seemed to read my thoughts. She quietly explained to me that as we passed the communion trays to the person beside us, we said to them quietly “the body of Christ, given for you” and “the blood of Christ, shed for you,” so that everyone was served personally by someone, and everyone personally served someone else. It was a blessing to me to be served by Betty that day and many other days, and, when the tray came from the other direction, to get to serve her.

With others, we attended together Presbyterian Women Bible Studies, retreats, Church Women United gatherings, church meals and special events, and a weekly small group reading circle we called R4. I think the last time she was able to physically attend church was Ash Wednesday 2024. I picked her up at her house and she moved slowly with her cane. She shared several times how special that was, especially seeing the children getting their ashes.

Over the years, I became a regular at her house. She took me on the forest trails around her house. Sometimes we hiked. Sometimes she drove us in her golf cart, at first with her dog Sam running ahead of us; then in later years it was little Roscoe. She always showed me her flowers, in whatever season, and, both avid readers, we often talked about the books we were reading. Once when I was visiting, a bird flew inside her house, and the two of us scampered around closing doors to eventually get it back outside.

Oh, and she loved riding in my “cute little red car.” I took her to the park a couple of times, and once she arranged a visit to introduce me to Dot Swing, which was so special to me, as Dot's sister had meant so much to me in Greensboro years ago. And just while I knew Betty, she was a member of multiple reading groups, including one in Winston where, we came to realize, she knew my daddy’s twin cousins Nancy and Pat. She wanted to set up a visit for us all, but we never got around to making it happen.

Often she talked of her favorite memories of me: the women’s retreat I led in 2019, hearing me share my story in 2016, our 95th/63rd birthday when I brought a few friends and boxed lunches to her house to celebrate; and I’m not sure why, but she would laugh in delight at the memory of when I drove her to vote curbside, maybe just because it was a different way to experience voting. “Wasn’t that such fun!” she would say.

I only got to know Betty the last 13 of her 95 years, but she shared many stories with me, some repeatedly; like, when she lived in Durham and taught second grade. Her students were mostly African American, with one "Chinese girl" and one “little blonde boy.” Their classroom was at the end of the hallway, room 100, and she used to tell them that when they made it into the room, they had already made 100; and that the man who cared for the plants was the “plant manager.”

Betty was a PK (Pastor’s Kid), the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. Then she married a Presbyterian minister. They had three daughters, then grandchildren, and now there are great grandchildren. I’ve heard loving stories about every one of them.

Two days ago, as I entered Betty’s door, her face lit up as it always did. “You’re here!” she said, and she told me her breathing had been difficult all morning. “Kathy,” she said later in the visit, “is there anything in this room you’d like to take, to remember the day?” The day. She knew, didn't she. Before the next daybreak, she would be in another place.

Dear Betty, this morning the church learned of your passing. And we had communion. “The body of Christ given for you,” I could hear you saying to me as I wiped away tears. I'll catch up with you later, dear friend. Thank you for your forever imprint on my life.