I made the long haul to Opp today to honor the life of someone important.
Rickey Stokes himself makes jokes about how the first three letters in funeral are “fun,” as one should meet with family and friends and remember times past, and that should be fun.
Margie Welch was a bastion of true Christianity and a True Southern Lady. She’s got an army of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and friends who all knew the infinity of her love.
She was fundamentally kind and unendingly loving.
She was the matriarch of her family, setting an example for everyone blessed enough to have known her.
Her wit was more than that of the speed of a whip; it was more like a gun used to hunt for food she could eventually help lovingly cook into a stew.
Her tenure on this earth was defined by being the type of woman many of us know and love: smart, kind, and willing to either smack you with her hand or her tongue.
She’s known my family since well before I was a twinkle in my parents’ eyes; her children and my mother were friends in high school in Opp. Our families have been beautifully intertwined for years; many of you know the wonder of having family friends so close you just consider them family.
Really and truly, the thing I remember most about her are back rubs.
She had these beautiful long nails that seemed to be natural, though I never dared ask her. Whether I was as jovial as could be or feeling down on my luck, she always was there to rub my back and calm me.
That’s the beauty of these women: they calm you.
The pastor at her funeral made an incredible point: we must be the new Miss Margies.
We must follow in the stead of ladies like her and be infinitely loving and constantly kind; we must learn how to use sharp wit to whip grandkids and city clerks alike into shape; we must be Christlike; we must love our family without fail and celebrate every single moment; we must be irrevocably honest; we must be comforting; we must give back rubs.
