After 67 years of marriage - the best time of his life, Mr. Pennygood told me, fighting back tears - his wife had passed on Saturday night. She had just turned 86 and had died at home in the bed they had shared for all of their married life, in the house they had lived in for the last 50 years.
I remembered her as being a slight, frail woman with gray hair tied in braids and wound around her head. She walked with effort, usually leaning on his arm while he leaned on his cane. They were a small couple, always smartly dressed and unfailingly polite. This day, Mr. Pennygood wore a blue tie with geometric shapes and a matching handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket, his gold rimmed glasses sparkled. The best time of his life, he repeated with a wan smile, she had been an exceptional woman. The viewing would be tomorrow and they would lay her to rest the following day. He would preach his regular sermon on Sunday, given in her memory, and the entire congregation would attend. She had loved the choir, had sung in it for years, he said, and her voice would be much missed. It had comforted him to preach knowing she was always behind him, her sweet soprano raised in the singing of praises, her voice in harmony with God and life. It had not always been an easy life, he told me, even with her at his side, but it had always been a good one, filled with grace and sweetness, struggle and determination. They had risen above the name calling and racism of the south to build a small, sturdy church and a small, loyal congregation. They had rebuilt after the burning and the threats, had never given up on faith, had survived and continued to preach forgiveness and love even when shut out and despised. Years of nickels and dimes put away in coffee cans had paid to send their only daughter to teaching college and to make a down payment on a small house.
I listened to Mr. Pennygood with a sense of sadness at his loss and amazement at his acceptance. He told me he'd gotten the call just after they met and had given up his day laboring job to join the church. He began preaching with her full support although it meant living on next to nothing in a dogtrot house in a neglected and forgotten part of town.
She wrote his sermons out in longhand and never missed a Sunday service. In the years before their daughter was born, they lived on beans and rice, charity and hope. Mrs. Pennygood cleaned houses by day and office buildings by night so that he could spend his time doing the Lord's work. Never a word of complaint, never a doubt that it was the right thing to do, never a question about his devotion. She believed with her whole heart, he said, in him and the life he had chosen for her.
His daughter, now a teacher in Dallas, had suggested he come and live with her but he had refused. His work, he had told her firmly, was not finished and he would not leave the little house he had shared with her mother, not leave his congregation or his friends. She had protested that he shouldn't be alone, that it would be no trouble, that she wanted him to come, that he would love the city and would have a room all to his own, that his grandchildren needed to have time with him. It was all to no avail and Mr. Pennygood had hugged her and smiled, a preacher he was and a preacher he would stay until it was time to go. Mrs. Pennygood, he suspected, was watching and he would not disappoint her, not after 67 years.
I remembered her as being a slight, frail woman with gray hair tied in braids and wound around her head. She walked with effort, usually leaning on his arm while he leaned on his cane. They were a small couple, always smartly dressed and unfailingly polite. This day, Mr. Pennygood wore a blue tie with geometric shapes and a matching handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket, his gold rimmed glasses sparkled. The best time of his life, he repeated with a wan smile, she had been an exceptional woman. The viewing would be tomorrow and they would lay her to rest the following day. He would preach his regular sermon on Sunday, given in her memory, and the entire congregation would attend. She had loved the choir, had sung in it for years, he said, and her voice would be much missed. It had comforted him to preach knowing she was always behind him, her sweet soprano raised in the singing of praises, her voice in harmony with God and life. It had not always been an easy life, he told me, even with her at his side, but it had always been a good one, filled with grace and sweetness, struggle and determination. They had risen above the name calling and racism of the south to build a small, sturdy church and a small, loyal congregation. They had rebuilt after the burning and the threats, had never given up on faith, had survived and continued to preach forgiveness and love even when shut out and despised. Years of nickels and dimes put away in coffee cans had paid to send their only daughter to teaching college and to make a down payment on a small house.
I listened to Mr. Pennygood with a sense of sadness at his loss and amazement at his acceptance. He told me he'd gotten the call just after they met and had given up his day laboring job to join the church. He began preaching with her full support although it meant living on next to nothing in a dogtrot house in a neglected and forgotten part of town.
She wrote his sermons out in longhand and never missed a Sunday service. In the years before their daughter was born, they lived on beans and rice, charity and hope. Mrs. Pennygood cleaned houses by day and office buildings by night so that he could spend his time doing the Lord's work. Never a word of complaint, never a doubt that it was the right thing to do, never a question about his devotion. She believed with her whole heart, he said, in him and the life he had chosen for her.
His daughter, now a teacher in Dallas, had suggested he come and live with her but he had refused. His work, he had told her firmly, was not finished and he would not leave the little house he had shared with her mother, not leave his congregation or his friends. She had protested that he shouldn't be alone, that it would be no trouble, that she wanted him to come, that he would love the city and would have a room all to his own, that his grandchildren needed to have time with him. It was all to no avail and Mr. Pennygood had hugged her and smiled, a preacher he was and a preacher he would stay until it was time to go. Mrs. Pennygood, he suspected, was watching and he would not disappoint her, not after 67 years.
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