Growing up in Ocala I was lucky to be surrounded by my hometown’s own version of Steel Magnolias: strong, fearless women who could host a dinner party, balance work, and life, and manage a crisis all at the same time. Grit and grace were part of their DNA.

Two of them passed away last week. Once again, I’m reminded how death instructs the living.

Eulogies and Facebook tributes aside, I tend to drill down on a personal level to define what made the loss so uniquely hard. They both died suddenly. They were intensely beloved by their families and community and were genuinely good, like an angelic selfless kind of good. Their deaths elicited a universal emotional response – oh no, not her.

Often in life, we put people in boxes with clearly defined roles. At first, Pat Ball and Brenda Adolf were in the mom box to me. I grew up with their children. I vacationed with one (Pat) and spent many a night at the other’s home (Brenda). They both wrapped me under their maternal wings, which had to be a comfort to my mom, who had already raised three daughters and was in her 40s raising little ole full-of-life me.

As I got older, my relationship with Pat and Brenda evolved into the friendship box, even though this doesn’t seem to quite fit the bill for what they meant to me.

I don’t remember when I didn’t know Miss Pat. She was always in my life. She and her husband, Tommy, were among my parents’ best friends.

They went to church together, raised children, played Rummy on the weekends, and stayed at the Daytona Beach hotel every summer. Our families were part of a circle of friends in Ocala that was so tight, so entwined in one another’s lives, that I often felt like I had multiple sets of parents. And the Balls took this role seriously. So much, in fact, they almost killed me.

Pat and Tommy were my church youth group leaders. They taught us scripture during Sunday school, took us on lake retreats and introduced us to their fondness for fitness. The latter is what got me.

One Saturday, the Balls thought it would be fun to take the youth group on a bike ride around town and end at IHOP Restaurant on Pine Street for breakfast. I made a few discoveries that chilly morning while riding a tandem cycle with Mr. Tommy. First, Ocala had many steep hills. Second, I was more of a social kind of youth group gal, opting for singing Amy Grant songs in the comfort of an air-conditioned chapel. I had not properly trained for a 10-mile ride.

From the back bike seat, I yelled to Mr. Tommy that I wasn’t feeling well and could we possibly hail a cab. He encouraged me to use both feet while pedaling. Then Miss Pat breezily cycled past us with her typical big grin. She was always kidding me.

“Come on, Amy!” she yelled while laughing, “Don’t you want to eat a big pile of pancakes right now?”

I’m not proud of this moment, but I believe I said something to the effect of while I appreciated her spiritual leadership, I wasn’t ready to meet Jesus just yet. This is the same woman who took all the kids to see the movie “Jaws” at the beach. No wonder we spent the next day holed up in the hotel.

Brenda Adolf didn’t try to kill or scare me, but she could have made me a recluse.

The minute I walked into the Adolf home, I never wanted to leave. She and her husband, Pete, a talented building contractor, had built a multi-leveled house near horse country. It was a lived-in kind of home with spacious rooms that offered oversized couches, comfy beds and a kitchen that always smelled of baked cookies.

Her daughter Wendy and I spent hours holed up at the house listening to Billy Joel and The Cars, working on Anchor and Little Women service club projects and dreaming about our future boyfriends, most of whom would never become our boyfriends and would be shocked they were on the list. Brenda always checked in on us with something delicious from the oven.

Brenda had the most ethereal countenance. Her kindness was radiation grade. I eventually discovered this was her secret weapon.

She could calm a crowd or naughty teenager with one soulful tilt of her head and knowing eyes. I never wanted to disappoint her. Time and again I saw how giving she was – to a fault, I suspect. She would give anyone anything. I hesitated to tell her that I liked something in the home décor store she owned because she would give it me! “Here honey, just take it!”

Through the years, we would run into each other at the grocery store, but my last connection with Brenda was her Christmas card with a personalized message she always included in her iconic beautiful handwriting.

Back to the mom box. Pat and Brenda have made me think differently about what kind of legacy I’d like to leave. Could I be in a mom box to my children’s friends now who are young adults?

I hope I will always be a safe place to land in troubled and good times. I hope my home is open for comfort, dreaming and freshly baked cookies or a really fantastic Betty Cake.

I’ll never be one to cycle 10 miles, but I’d drive 1,000 miles to see Bailey accept her journalism award or watch Alia graduate from college or see Allie’s new workplace in Atlanta. These kids have become my kids. And Weston. And Julia. And Louie. And Will. And many more, Lord willing.

Any box will do. That’s what Pat and Brenda knew and lived every day of their exceptional time on this earth. And they were spectacular at it.

Thank you, moms. I’ll love you both forever.