Who Remembers Mrs. Biederman?

Some decades ago, in a 1950's 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, gathering place, in our 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.

Mary Whitford Biederman
1909 - 1986

I've read with interest books by Mark Batterson that speak of circle making. Maybe, the author knew Mrs.  Biederman. Perhaps she was his muse. I speak of  her ability to make a person feel that 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, really. Just hold hands in a circle -- pray one by one as it came your 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 that I 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.

Celebrating an anticipated birthday
 at Mrs. Biederman's house. 

Aside from birthday notes and letters she'd write to me 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.

She played such a vital role in my life. It seemed fitting she would act as grandmother at my wedding. My own grandparents had passed on. 

All the more vital, 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 and me in 1983.

Mrs. Biederman accepted the role of honorary grandmother with the understanding that she and I be photographed alone rather than with actual family. That was her idea. She feared confusing future generations that might 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 in a year of the 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 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. No doubt, though, our first baby wasn't the first in Mrs. Biederman's circle to be named for her. 

Then, in what seemed like no time at all, the circle maker and the published author passed on to her Maker.

Many who had 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.  

 *******************************************************************

 Many thanks to The Valdosta Daily Times. 

On July 1, 2024 the newspaper first published online 

 my column titled Mrs. Biederman, the Circle Maker.  

This similar post is made in her memory. 

She met her Maker 38 years ago this month.