Patti Always Showed Up

The other day when we were videoing in the conference room, I was a little too rattled, and a little occupied gathering friends to talk about Patti. So here’s my piece. 

When I first started at First National Bank of Middle Tennessee, my office was right next to Patti Barnes'. I was new, a little unsure of myself, and all I could think was, “I just want Patti to like me.” Everyone knew Patti. And I don’t mean that casually—everybody knew Patti. She'd been at the bank for nearly 48 years. If this place had a heartbeat, it thumped from her office.

And Patti was a character. You never knew what she was going to say. She might start a conversation with a “bless your heart” or with something a little more colorful. Her voice—her signature “oh my gosh”—would float into my office ten times a day. Patti’s door was a revolving one, and I’d hear her tell the same story to three different people, each one laughing like they were hearing it for the first time.

Now… it’s quiet. Too quiet. I miss the opinions, the jokes, even the complaints. I miss her.

Patti lived out the bank’s motto—We Show Up. She didn’t just show up in the physical sense. She showed up in the way that matters most: she paid attention. She noticed people. She fed them—literally and emotionally. Around Christmas, she cooked breakfast for the entire Main Branch team not once, but three times. And not store-bought stuff either. We're talking homemade biscuits and gravy. I gained five pounds that week, and I’d do it again.

She signed up for every community event I sent out—always one of the first. She didn’t do it for credit. She just believed in being there. That’s what showing up looked like to Patti.

One time, I was scrambling to pick something up last-minute for a board meeting, totally overwhelmed. Patti dropped everything, looked at me, and said, “Well, would you order me something?” Straightforward. Honest. Helpful. That was Patti.

She blessed me every time I sneezed—up until the tenth sneeze. Then she yelled, “Nobody deserves to be blessed that much!” I still laugh thinking about it.

We grew close. She loved to talk about bingo trips to Kentucky, her massive family get-togethers in the barn they built, and the cooking marathons that came with them. Food was her love language. And so was presence.

I was one of the last people to see her. I sat with her in the hospital in Cookeville just an hour and a half before she passed. I remember looking at her hands. Her nails still looked impeccable. That detail hit me hard. Even in her final hours, she was still her—strong, put-together, full of pride in how she carried herself.

Patti Barnes showed up for us all. In laughter, in service, in friendship. The world feels a little quieter without her. But if we’re wise, we’ll carry forward what she taught us—not through words, but through example.

We’ll show up.