Sweet Mrs. Jones,

To address this letter to you as “Beneth” would minimize its purpose. To simply address you as “friend” would minimize the length of years over which this letter is long overdue. To omit the word sweet would make the words that follow come only from my memories and not from a heart that has been touched by yours. I have shed tears over your prayer requests, shared laughter over your self-deprecating comments, and wondered for years how you are able to get your nose to do that cute little back-and-forth rapid twitching thing that you do (just like the character “Samantha” on Betwitched).

Your dear husband shared with all of us yesterday that your medical treatments have ended because they are no longer effective. Over the past twenty-four hours, I have experienced a sense of earthly sorrow that your lymphoma will have been indeed terminal and a sense of empathetic joy on your behalf that, as Dr. Bob stated in his note, your lymphoma will “soon be terminated.” An additional emotion of jealousy entered in, knowing that your effervescent faith will soon be sight as you gaze into the eyes of our Savior.

So, dear one, I count this time as a privilege. We are often faced with coulda-shoulda-wouldas, wondering why we left our “one-of-these-days-I-should-write-this-note-to-her” unwritten. But the news came, the tears flowed, and I knew that I could, should, and would look at this opportunity as a gift.

So today, I not only thank you, but I thank you publicly, honoring merely a few of the specific ways in which you have impacted my life through the years.

In your gracious, gentle way, you were a true champion for Christian women everywhere. But not in the ways that many would think.

Your column, Sunshine on the Soapsuds (and the subsequent books that sprang from its content), taught me a vital lesson as a teenage girl: Christian women can write, can make a difference through their writing, and can be honest through their writing about who they are. While other writers, even in recent years, write of God’s grace, they often write as if they don’t need it. You, fearless one, wrote honestly of your gratitude for grace, and you acknowledged that you needed it. You wrote and spoke of your personal foibles. You wrote outside of yourself and your not-always-comfortable bubble of Christendom. Second only to my dear father, you impacted my desire to write. You paved the way for me, as a Christian woman, to do so. And for this, I am grateful.

You once wrote an article in which you stated that you would use the name Beneth Peters Jones, including your “maiden name” from that point forward. Through this, you honored your heritage, your “roots,” as it were, and your parents. You didn’t do it to be “independent of your husband,” as some did in choosing not to take their spouse’s last name at all. No, you once again chose to take a bold move, set the pace, and say, “Honoring my heritage matters.” In my writing, I use “Brenda Strohbehn Henderson” not because I was single for so long and want to keep “my” name. I do it for the same reasons as—and more importantly, because of—you, Beneth Peters Jones. And for this, I am grateful.

After we had received the e-mail and after your husband graciously and transparently shared the next steps of your family’s journey through this cancer, I was touched to see the outpouring of gratitude, love, and prayers that were being shared via social media. Pictures of you were popping up in my Facebook feed and on Instagram. Those pictures were not there because you were close, intense “besties” with any of those people. Nor could this open letter be written to you out of that level of friendship either. But you, a world-traveling, in-the-spotlight-more-often-than-not, godly woman have this uncanny way of making each woman you meet feel as if she matters more—as if she is indeed your dearest and best friend, as if her problems are greater than your own, as if she has impacted your life more than you have impacted hers. It was of their own accord that the photographers at our wedding got the picture of you and, as my Joe calls him, “Bob 3″…not posing, but just being you. So I include this, along with a couple of you and my sweet mama conversing, for you, thoughtful one, to see and to know that your presence that day let us know that we mattered to you. And for this, I am grateful.

You continue to teach me what grace looks like, not just through your writing, but now through your laughter, tears, prayers, personal conversations. Your example of living life reliant on His mercy alone shines forth across the breakfast table in your home. And for this, I am grateful.

Which reminds me, if you’d be so kind as to allow this still-struggling-in-the-kitchen, still-somewhat-new bride to have your waffle recipe, I (and more importantly, Joe) would be most grateful. Seriously. Those things are the lightest, tastiest waffles in all of cooking-dom! Oh yes, and for this, I will be most grateful!

My tears are now flowing, because both this letter and your time with us must come to their appointed end. Your life will continue to touch women everywhere and teach them that, above all…Christ. And for you, sweet Mrs. Jones…Beneth…friend, I am grateful.

Brenda Strohbehn Henderson

Isaiah 41:13