In a small town, where life moves slow and days blend together, even the smallest tragedy feels monumental. In small towns, people claim to know one another—at least well enough to talk about each other.
Terry’s death made the front page of the local paper, her senior yearbook photo staring out from the article—a face frozen in time, full of promise.”
The article provided few details, offering instead a brief biography of Terry—who she was, where she’d been, but not why she was gone. The article conclude with "The police are investigating and the corners report is pending." At the bottom of the page, a notice listed the details of Terry’s funeral. A service at Beacon of Hope Baptist Church. Burial at Tranquility Ridge Cemetery. A reception for family and friends to follow. Another name, another date, another farewell.
Perched on a gentle rise overlooking Eden, the Beacon of Hope Baptist Church stood simple and unadorned. Built in 1885, its white ship-lap siding and steep gabled roof had weathered over a century of sermons, weddings, and funerals. The floors were covered with wide southern pine planks, from the old growth forest that once covered the hills and valleys nearby. The rafters were left exposed and the underside of the roof was painted white.
Originally built without a spire, the church had planned to add a tower in time. Until then, the bell sat on a five-foot brick stand near the entrance. Years later, when the spire was finally erected, the congregation had grown accustomed to the bell’s place and refused to move it. A bronze plaque was eventually affixed to its base, a silent testament to the town’s traditions.
The spruce pews that filled the nave were worn and rippled as the hard winter rings stood proud of the soft summer growth from years of members sliding in and out of their seats. A simple wooded pulpit stood to the left on the raised alter and the baptismal was next to the front door.
The Lancet windows were the only luxury in the church. These stained glass windows colored the light that fell on the spruce pews and pine floors. They were purchased at the bequest on a widowed mother who lost her only child in the Civil War and wanted a remembrance of his sacrifice. It was a simple church built for a simple congregation.
Today another child was being delivered into the arm of the Almighty. The House of the Lord was filled. Some where family, some were friends and some were just curious. The preacher talked about the better place that Terry was going to, a Paradise. He remember her life and extolled her qualities. He gave what comfort he could to her family.
Tears fell, and for a moment, grief reminded them all—no one is promised tomorrow. In the quiet weight of loss, minds turned inward, sifting through regrets and unspoken words. Relationships were reconsidered, promises silently renewed. But in time, as always, life would move on, and these reflections would fade
The service ended and the preacher announced the location of the interment.
In Eden, the Sheriff’s Department always escorted funeral processions. It was a tradition Ted had carried on since his days as a Volunteer Deputy—one that most regular deputies preferred to avoid. But for Ted, it was more than just a duty; he had known most of the county’s residents and would have likely attended many of the funerals anyway.
After becoming a regular deputy and then Sheriff, he continued the practice. It was the only time outside of official Department events that Ted wore his dress uniform. The procession was one of the longest in recent memory. The Sheriff lead the way while three other deputies controlled traffic and followed behind. A short drive from the church, Tranquility Ridge Cemetery was just out of town and was the Neilsen’s family cemetery. Terry was placed next to her father.
After the interment the family received guest at the VFW hall. Terry was from a well know family and that had lived many years in the county. Her mother and sister returned to Eden to attend the funeral. One by one, people stopped to offer their condolences and bid farewell to Mother Nielson. They all knew, though no one dared say it aloud, that this would likely be the last time they saw her. She had health problems and was living in the big city. With the death of her child and her health, she would most likely never return.
Ted thought to himself that this was a day that marked a change. From this day forward the Neilson family would never again be residents of Eden. He searched the crowd for his wife. Mary was standing next to the stage with his daughter Sara. Ted looked at Sara and fought the tears that welled up in his eyes. This could have been Sara. He caught Mary’s eye and she let herself smile at him. Ted scanned the room, seeing fragments of his past in every familiar face. The friends he had grown up with. The man who sold him his first car. His barber, his banker. The girl he once loved—and the man who had stolen her away.
The next thing he knew, Mary was standing next to him and had her arm lock onto his. She leaned into his side and grasp his hand in hers. She gently squeezed his hand and whispered “I love you”.
Mother Nielson said her goodbyes and gave hugs and thank yous to everyone that offered their condolences. She was tired and weary from the ordeal of it all. She excused herself and and left with her oldest daughter for the long trip back to the city. People lingered and VFW’s bar open for service. Mary and Sara had left and Ted followed shortly thereafter.
On his way home, Ted’s thoughts turned dark. Had the person who gave Terry the drugs been someone local? Had they stood among the mourners today, blending in with the grief-stricken crowd? And would Eden ever truly return to normal?"