Dear Harpeth Hills,

Here is my memory of her. She is surrounded by laughing and screaming children on the field at Camp Meribah in Centerville, Tennessee. It is church camp, the late 1970’s. The shaving cream fight has reached its climax, and Martha is covered from head to toe. The campers have spiked Martha’s hair with the shaving cream, increasing her height from her normal 4’10” to maybe 5’5”.

Martha is right in the middle of it. Laughing. Or maybe the word is giggling. She is having the time of her life.

Martha did not have children in the youth group. Her kids were grown and had moved away. But Martha still volunteered to serve at summer camp, taking a week off from her job at Sears Roebuck.

(One time Martha’s young preacher, named Jimmy Moffett, called Sears to order his wife some lingerie for an anniversary or birthday. Unfortunately, Martha was the one who took the order. She never let the preacher forget it.)

Martha’s husband struggled with drink. As we say in the south, she had a tough row to hoe. And then the cancer came before retirement did.

Here is another memory of Martha from a few years later. Sunday at church. Martha is in her pew with her wig on, Bible in her hand, and a smile on her face. That woman just exuded joy. All the way to the end.

Martha’s laugh. How to describe it? Loud, definitely loud, and long. But certainly not a cackle. It has a pleasant tone—almost a girlish sound to it. High pitched with a soft country twang. I wish you could have heard it.

The fruit of the spirit is love, joy. . .

I love you.

—Chris Smith