She was born the daughter of missionaries and dreamed of life on the mission field, but her dream was derailed by a tall drink of water named Billy. According to the title of a recent Benedicta Cipolla article, Ruth Bell Graham was the “silent rock” behind the world-famous evangelist to whom she was married for more than sixty years. It is often said that there never has been nor ever will be another evangelist like Billy Graham, a sentiment with which I concur. I can’t help but wonder, however, if there will ever be another evangelist’s wife like Ruth, who made the globetrotting, crusade-preaching ministry of her husband possible.

They buried Ruth Graham at her husband’s newly dedicated library in Charlotte this past Lord’s Day. As tragic as this is, a greater tragedy by far is the fact that our country long ago buried all that Mrs. Graham stood for. Having been interred by radical feminism, the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31:10-31 is a faint memory in most of our modern-day world, a world that has regrettably replaced its Ruth Grahams with Hillary Clintons— women who see themselves as larger than life figures incapable of stooping so low as to invest all of their days in so ignoble a task as child-rearing. Thus, they call for the aid of the village in raising their children so that they can devote themselves to more important things, like climbing corporate ladders or running for high office.

While Billy played golf with presidents, kicked back with kings, and parleyed with popes and prime ministers, Ruth chose to remain behind in the seclusion of their mountaintop home. There, she spent herself on that which she most prized and valued; namely, her children and grandchildren. Never allured by the glow of the limelight, Ruth Graham opted for an ordinary life, believing the biblical admonition to never undervalue the day of small things (Zechariah 4:10).

Finding intrinsic meaning in putting a Band-Aid on a skinned knee, refereeing a sibling-rivalry, or hanging a tree swing—a labor of love that resulted in a fall in 1974 that led to the degenerative osteoarthritis that kept her bedridden in her final days—Ruth Graham never felt the need to look for life’s meaning beyond her own backyard. Let Billy preach in the world’s most famous cathedrals, she was content in her little mountain chapel of the heart, where Bible stories were read to little ears and prayers were prayed over little bowed heads and small clasped hands.

It wasn’t that Ruth Graham could not have aspired to great worldly heights or obtained a greater sphere of worldly influence. She was after all a remarkable woman. Along with being an author, poet, philanthropist and humanitarian, she also designed the Graham’s mountaintop home in Montreat, North Carolina. I guess you could say of the Graham’s home what Yankee fans are fond of saying of their stadium; namely, it’s the house that Ruth built.

Whereas most public figures easily wither under the intense spotlights of our world, Ruth Graham appeared not only undaunted by them, but always able to emerge from them undimmed and dazzling, despite the fact that she readily admitted that living in the public eye was not her “wad of gum.” She had an uncanny ability to sidestep controversy and dodge barbs thrown in her direction with the grace of a swan. For instance, when a reporter once asked her if she had ever thought of divorcing Billy, she answered no, but added that she had considered murdering him on several occasions. When her husband’s denomination passed a controversial resolution calling on all wives to submit to their husbands, Ruth responded with a witty quip, “Sometimes you submit; sometimes you outwit.”

Like our Lord, Ruth Bell Graham always seemed above the fray. She was never soiled by politics. She was never blinded by fame. She was never tempted by fortune. She was always able to keep her feet on the ground and her head out of the clouds. Still, she lived on a higher spiritual plain than most, a plain she refused to descend from in order to grab a fist full of this world’s glitter or to play around in any of its dirt.

I find it fitting that her burial Sunday was a private affair without any fanfare; after all, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She often testified that she couldn’t remember a time in her life when she didn’t believe in Jesus Christ, a testimony that caused some to hold her salvation suspect, since it lacked any Damascus Road experience. But slipping into the Kingdom of God, just as she slipped out of this world into the Kingdom of Heaven last Thursday, was just her style. That’s just the way this unpretentious, virtuous woman insisted on doing things.