Mr. Little peeps over his covers.

What a night of tossing and turning, the clock begs me to get up at three-thirty. Maybe a cup of coffee will stop this feeling of dread that fills my mind - something feels wrong, but what is it?

After a quick visit to the bathroom, I snatch the coffee already made. The full moon shines in the living room through the shades, showing me where the remotes are. I'm scanning the infomercials hoping for something to ease my thoughts. Daystar has an interesting show in the early morning called Reflections - it has beautiful scenes, soft music with scripture to read. It's a calming start to a day.

Now, the first rays of the sun begin to peer through my office window while I'm going over the pictures from yesterday. I took a long-overdue visit to a cherished place, Old Shiloh Burying Grounds. Miss Billie brought back the memory of my first visit. 

There once was a town between Milan and Humboldt named Old Shiloh. It was founded in 1822 and called the Athens of the South. It just so happens that two men from there started schools in Trenton, Humboldt, and Milan. In 1836, they started the cemetery and built the church. There are 51 families buried there - not counting the many unmarked graves of the poor and the slaves.

In this picture of the horizon, up on the hill behind the tiny church, I can almost see the town laid out before me - the livery stable, general store, sheriff's office, and town hall at the end of Main Street. Of course, several homes are placed here and there, behind the main buildings. If only the railroad came closer to Old Shiloh. The town slowly faded away by the 1900s.

That feeling of dread comes over me again, and the thought of Miss Billie comes to the forefront.

"Oh, dear God, no."

The way out of town is in slow motion. It feels as if time is standing still at seventy-miles-per-hour. The squealing of my tires at the turnaround sounds so distant. Praise God there's no traffic when the truck goes flying back on Highway Forty-five. It isn't easy to slow the truck down at Miss Billie's gravel road. These brakes ain't what they used to be. After the fishtail, the truck races to the gate. Who cares about getting stuck now? A quick smile appears as I spin around the post. Steven would have never made it this fast. I'm actually running up the path, something my legs haven't done in years. Around the Oak, then onto the porch. Opening the door, my heart sinks. 

There was a smell when Sherry passed away - it permeated her entire hospital room. Death filled the air, and it's pouring out of Miss Billie's door. 

My feet seemed glued in place. What should I do? Then my mind clears; her death needs reporting. Slowly, pulling out my phone, I dial 911.

Since there's no address to tell them, I promised to wait on the highway until the ambulance arrives. But first, my heart wants to see Miss Billie. It's an honor to walk into her world. A large room stands before me with only the daylight to reveal a tiny bit of it. There in her bed, Miss Billie clutches her Bible. Her hand is still a little warm. She hasn't been gone but a few hours. 

Why didn't I leave at three-thirty? 

Her pale face and skin highlight every bone, but Miss Billie's smile always brightens her face.

I know one thing, she didn't die alone. The Lord was with her.

It took thirty minutes for the ambulance to find me on the highway. The paramedics ask, "You mean someone lives here?"

"Yes, all of her ninety-seven-years. The last thirty, by herself." To me, it seemed proud to say those words and to know someone like Miss Billie.

The coroner arrived twenty minutes later and pronounced her dead with barely a nod, probably from a heart attack or old age. The way he said it seemed heartless, but he didn't know Miss Billie. I wish he did.

It wasn't easy helping the paramedics get her body over the gate then into the ambulance. My heart was shattering. I'm standing behind the truck, watching a dear friend leave the farm for the first time in many years. If only she were alive to see it.

The ambulance turns towards Milan. Where are my tears?

~

It took over a week to arrange the funeral. Nobody had been buried in Old Shiloh since 1951, and the Dow tombstones, like most, are unreadable. The cemetery map was a great help, but what stood out was the era's bigotry. On the left side, away from the church, lies the field of unmarked graves for the poor. On the right side, farthest away from the church, are the slaves' unmarked graves. They tried to deny any slave a chance to be buried close to God, as if that mattered. 

The hearse and I are waiting for the man to open the gate for Old Shiloh while the rain continues to batter my old truck. The wipers can't keep up. Something is missing in me since Miss Billie's death. It isn't easy to describe this feeling, but it's like this day, full of heavy rain. 

The man finally arrives with the key and opens the gate. The hearse drivers and I gently carry her coffin to a hole already dug. They slide her casket into the six-foot cavern. Someone says something that I don't hear; the hearse drivers shake my hand and leave. The gravedigger's crew take a Bobcat, fill in the hole, wave to me, then exit the scene. The man clicks the lock for the gate and slams his truck door. Gravel flies when he hits second gear.

The rain eases a little, but it still pours off of the brim of my hat, replacing the tears that I haven't shed. Will nobody weep for this woman?

~

A bright January sun is sharing little warmth today. I'm determined to find an end to this empty feeling. Miss Billie's life was so secluded. I've only been inside her house once, to find the body. Something is drawing me down the gravel road again to see how she lived.

We left the door open, carrying her body out. That was two weeks ago. The sunlight barely fills the room - there must be some candles somewhere. I turn on my iPhone's flashlight to look around. There are candles on shelves all over the room. But first, we need a fire. 

The wood was a little damp from the rain, so it took a few minutes, but fire now rages in the potbellied stove sharing warmth throughout the room. I open the dark blue curtains on the only window in the room; it faces the south, which helps a little. Lighting the candles on the shelves with a lighter enlightens the room. 

There's an old handmade table with two blue vinyl chairs tucked neatly under it. I pull one out and sit down. Miss Billie's life slowly comes into view while gazing around the room. Each section is based on a season of the year. 

To the left, in the far corner, is Spring. It has all of her garden tools and jars of seed she collected and dried from her gardens. 

Summer is full of sewing supplies. Needles and thread of all sizes and colors. Two giant rolls of cloth, one blue and the other grey. There are rolls of something for quilts. Piles of different color cloth fill the corner. Did she make quilts in her spare time?

Fall has all of her canning supplies, mason jars, lids, two pressure cookers, knives, and kitchen tools I've never seen before. 

Winter was her hunting season. Near a door to the rest of the house are her shotgun, rabbit traps, and everything you need to skin any animal.

Surrounding the room are calenders with the face of Jesus, in many different forms. Some dating back to the early 1920s. The white paint has flaked away on most of the walls. The beautiful Maple lumber underneath has a rich patina. 

This house is a beautiful example of an extraordinary era - a time capsule of grace and love. It existed in a simple woman with a compassionate, loving heart. Her stunning blue eyes have seen ten decades pass on this earth. Living here alone, Miss Billie only saw the dignity in life and none of the hatred for the last thirty years. What a blessing that is!

Besides the medium-sized stove is an old metal frame, twin-sized bed. What's that stacked in the corner?

It's several stacks of one-subject notebooks. On the covers are a month and a year, Miss Billie's diaries. There on a trunk at the foot of the bed, I notice a folded note addressed, Mr. Little. It sits on a handmade quilt. I pick it up and start to read:

My dear Mr. Little,

Here lies a small token of my affection. You have no idea what it meant to have a loving friend. The Lord sent me a wonderful man to bless me in my final days. You were indeed an answer to my prayer.

I look forward to meeting your wife in heaven.

Your loving friend, 

Billie Washington

Miss Billie changed my life in many ways by only talking to her. She shared with me her infectious, gentle spirit of Godly wisdom and love. How could I have been a blessing to her?

A feeling of loss suddenly fills my heart. I have buried the three most important women in my life: my Mother, my Wife, and a dear friend. Clutching the quilt to my chest, I begin to weep.

~
 

Two days later.

One-subject notebooks now surround my cluttered desk and floor with a computer in the center. I've been studying Miss Billie's notebooks and finding fantastic writing that needs to be shared. She wrote so eloquently about simple things. 

It's time to introduce Miss Billie to the world. Maybe she can save it?