My grandmother, Eleanor, was the quiet backbone of her Southern Baptist church for nearly 50 years. She cooked, taught, donated, and showed up—for everyone, always. When the church needed her, she was there. When she needed them after a devastating accident left her disabled, no one came. Not a visit. Not a call.
Still, she mailed in her tithe, sent cupcakes to the kids, and prayed along to sermons online. She kept the faith—until the very end. In her final days, a pastor finally came. But not to comfort her. He came to ask if she’d remembered the church in her will. She had
