Some decades ago, in a 1950s mobile home her late husband had bricked into a house with a sunny foyer, living room and fireplace, lived Mary Whitford Biederman. Her home became the youth hub, the gathering place, in our Clyattville community. Many who gathered, like me, had no idea how, when or why the New England transplant came to live in South Georgia. We only knew her home was always open to us. Not much else mattered.
I’ve read with interest books by Mark Batterson about circle making. Perhaps, the author knew Mrs. Biederman. I speak of her ability to make a person feel as though they were in her circle. Her prayer circle for sure. For truly, whether I visited her solo or with others in her home, we never said good-bye without forming the prayer circle. The formation was quite simple. Just hold hands in a circle – pray one by one as it came our turn. For those of us who didn’t want to pray aloud, she told us to squeeze the hand of the person beside us until the circle came back to her.
Mrs. Biederman’s prayers were full of faith asking God to “bless the hands of those whom I hold and the hands of those they hold.”
She knew us – she knew to Whom she was praying. We were in her circle.
‘Twas just that simple.
All I remember her asking from us was to sing the popular song of the day, “Pass it On.” The opening lines about how it only takes a spark to get a fire going were her favorite. It didn’t matter whether we gathered by her fireplace or by bonfire, she never seemed to tire of that song. Such a catchy tune.
Some time ago, I came across a birthday note from 1980 where she’d written:
“Dear Becky, tonight, I almost caught myself wishing you could stay just the age you are now. But not really. It’s just that you are so much fun now, such a blessing now – so like a lovely April morning. Mornings turn to noon times, and then into quiet fulfilled evenings. So may your days and years be. I am thankful to have known you ‘in the morning’ and I wish for you the sunshine and shadows that make many days complete.”
How glad I am to have kept the aged note with penmanship from days of yore. And, how thankful I am, too, that the sender of the note knew me in the morning of my life. Those days of early teen to young adult. Days of anticipated birthdays, boyfriends, and breakups. Days that eventually included marriage and my first year of motherhood. Such were the years the sender of the note knew me. Such were the years of being in her circle.
Aside from birthday notes and letters she’d write while visiting her family in New England and Alaska, Mrs. Biederman shared her poetry with me. This inspired me to write some as well. Yet mine proved quite fleeting. My lack of rhythm and rhyme sounded awkward to the ebb and flow of her lines.
Playing such a vital role in my life, it felt fitting that she’d act as grandmother when I married. My own grandparents had passed on. Moreover, I first knew I loved my husband when we were at her house one Sunday evening. Such a long time ago. Yet, that memory has power to quicken the many things I felt in the morning of my life.
Mrs. Biederman accepted the honorary role with the understanding that she and I would be photographed alone rather than with actual family. That was her idea. She feared confusing future generations that would look back and wonder who she was. To settle the matter, though, she chose a dress of soft shaded purple. Along with her stately white hair and cameo pendant, she looked ever the part. And, I wore her pearls as my something borrowed. No doubt, though, I wasn’t the first bride in her circle to wear the pearls.
Within a year of my wedding, Mary Whitford Biederman self-published a small bound book of poems to share with her own family and friends. “Scribbled Words” is a bundle of poetry offering glimpses of the morning, noontime and then quiet fulfilled evenings of her lifetime. And, it’s priceless.
“Dedicated with gratitude to Jesus for letting me live in his Beautiful World,” is found on the first page, and just inside the front cover, she wrote in that penmanship from days of yore: “To Becky: With gratitude for letting me watch you grow up so beautifully. For memory of fires, prayer circles and always love.”
A baby arrived not long afterward. Husband and I named her for Mrs. Biederman, his mother and my aunt. Then, in what seemed like no time at all, the published author and circle maker moved on to her Maker.
Many who’d once gathered in her home, those she had drawn into her circle, gathered that day in the community church she loved so dearly. We paid our respects as she lay there in the soft shaded purple dress from my wedding. The service felt fitting. We tried our best to smile through tears as we sang “Pass it On” once more. Just for her.
Oh, the wonders of Mrs. Biederman, the circle maker. I think of her more often than not. Especially as I move into the quiet fulfilled evenings of my life. Memories of her love, writing and prayers stay with me.
And so I long to make a circle. A fire would be lovely, too. By fireplace or bonfire, just a spark will do.