In the kitchen - where I would spend almost as many hours during my college years as I did in my dorm room. Where the white painted door was propped open, there was a long metal table where an army of college girls were seated with rags and toothbrushes and tubes of foul-smelling pink goop that they were applying to pieces of the antique chandelier I'd seen in the hall. Among them, scrubbing and buffing with the best of them sat Vesta. I don't know that I exactly remember that she said it, but I know she would've looked up, seen me standing there all lost and confused and said, "Whatchya need, hon?"
I needed a job to rescue me from the dreck of the college dining hall. And ever since I'd seen a picture in the newspaper of a local girl who worked as a tour guide at Oak Hill and donned a beautiful hoopskirted dress, I'd wanted to be an Oak Hill girl, too.
The interview was brief; I don't remember if Vesta even asked me about my skills. I would guess instead that she shrewdly assessed my puny spirit and decided somebody needed to look after this poor waify thing standing in front of her. And by the grace of God, she decided that somebody would be her.
For the next three and a half years, I worked under the supervision of Vesta. I dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed and polished every inch of that house. I gave tours, dutifully telling the stories of the house and its owner. I served lunches to potential donors and the college president. Those were all the requirements of the job.
But more important than all that, I observed. I observed Vesta in her provisions. She cooked biscuits and hot tea for breakfast for the morning girls. She made cornbread and big pots of vegetable soup when it was cold and blustery outside. She made lunches for visitors and lemonade for the grounds crew. When I was sick, she'd buy oranges and slice them for me to eat at lunch. She fed my body.
She prayed for us all - including the poetry professor who dared give me a B on an assignment, assuring me that we just needed to pray for him. (For the record, I ended up with an A in the class.) She talked to us about her faith - one that she demonstrated in so many ways: by baking an endless number of lemon poundcakes (for which she is famous) for birthdays, anniversaries, sympathy and get well wishes; by inviting those without family to her home for Thanksgiving and Christmas; by being involved in all sorts of causes that helped others. She was the essence of moral fiber. I never knew her to say no when someone needed her. She fed my spirit.
Having lost my biological grandparents at a young age, I was thirsty for her wisdom. She offered guidance in such simple and sage ways. She hugged me close and dried my tears on more than one occasion. Going to work became my refuge in times of turmoil. I could always count on Vesta for advice or support or encouragement or a hot cup of coffee and a hug. She fed my heart.
She once met Martha Berry. And her cooking was featured in the Atlanta Journal Constitution. One of the professor's established a scholarship in her name. Yet, she's always humble, always embodying the Berry mission - not to be ministered unto, but to minister.
I graduated from Berry almost 10 years ago, but Vesta and me have kept in touch through letters and cards and phone calls and the occasional visit to the alma mater. I cherish the times I get a Vesta hug and get to hear her ask, "How are you doing, hon?" in that marvelous way that you can't wait to tell her and hope she's proud.
When I think about the lessons I learned in college, some of the most important ones were from Vesta. She taught me so much about integrity and character and spiritual strength and just loving people so much that you can't stand but to do something to help them. I know she's touched about as many lives as there are stars in the sky. And I feel so lucky that mine is one of them.
