Betty Lou and Her Quiet Belonging

There was a woman I used to know many years ago now named Betty Lou. Betty Lou lived in a transitional housing building where I once worked, just off the Scioto River, close to downtown Columbus, Ohio. She was the kind of person you might not notice at first, because she preferred it that way. She didn't care for talk. Words, to her, were like coins, best spent sparingly, and not all at once. Still, she did like people. She enjoyed being around them, hearing the scrape of chairs on the floor, the way a room hums when folks are gathered, and the muffled laughing from two doors down the hall from her.

If you asked her something, she'd smile and maybe nod, but she wasn't going to tell you her life story. She had no use for that. She wanted to be there, in the middle of things, not as a speaker but as a witness. And though some people mistook her silence for shyness, it wasn’t fear that kept her quiet; it was her way of being fully present, catching all the little things the rest of us passed right by. And half the time, those ‘little things’ were people.

I would sometimes wonder how Betty Lou got there. What turns in the road, what disappointments or sorrows had carried her to the societal cracks until she landed in this concrete building with soft green paint and buzzing fluorescent lights. And then I'd picture her as a little girl, cross-legged on her living room carpet, dolls scattered around her, singing made-up songs to herself in a voice as free as the sparrows at dawn. Doing all the wonderful things a child does when they are caught up in play, alone in a room. It's hard to square the memory I imagined with the quiet woman who would stand alone in the corner of the lobby. But I suppose that's true of most of us; we all carry a child's laughter somewhere under our skin, even when the years have tried their best to hush it.

Now, Betty Lou found her place not by saying much but by doing. She'd be the one to wipe down the counter at the front desk or to fold someone's laundry that had been left in the dryer. If the coffee pot was empty, God bless her, she filled it. And if someone needed a hand carrying a box up the steps, she was there, moving quietly yet steadily, as if she'd been waiting for that very moment.

One day, I remember the Housing Manager asked her if she'd help set up chairs for the evening meeting. Betty Lou did it without hesitation, lining them up neat as soldiers. Another day, it was checking people in for their scheduled food pantry appointment. Pretty soon, it became clear that the building generally ran smoother when Betty Lou was around.

And in all this, she never asked for thanks. She wasn't working for applause. What she got in return was something better... belonging. Folks began to look for her, to count on her. They started saying things like, "Betty Lou's got it," and "Leave it for Betty Lou, she'll know what to do." And though she might never have said it herself, you could see it in her eyes, the pride of being needed, of being part of the community family, even if it was a ragtag one at that, held together by duct tape and a whole lot of grace.

Belonging doesn't always come from words. Sometimes it comes from a rag in the hand and a chair placed just right so the latecomer has a place to sit. Betty Lou knew that, and in her very quiet way, she reminded the rest of us that being useful is one of the best ways to feel at home.

Well, that's today's dispatch! From the dusty corners and the quiet places, keep the faith, friends, and pass it on.