A Patch of Sunshine

“Pastor Don, it’s pouring down rain!  How are we going to paint that lady's house today?”

What do you say to a group of teens who have just posed a very pertinent question?

It was the last full day of our mission trip in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky.  The previous day we had worked on Barbara's house.  Barbara had three children she was trying to raise on her own.  Six years earlier, Barbara had returned to their small hillside shack after going to the store for her husband, only to find he had committed suicide while she was gone. 

Living had been meager since then.  It had also grown more violent.  A friend of her late husband had decided that Barbara was going to be his woman whether she wanted to be or not. Whenever he got drunk and decided that he needed a woman, he would head up to the hillside shack and break down a door, or bust a window or even tear off boards from the side of the shack and break through the inner sheetrock and then brutally rape her as her three children cowered in one of the other rooms of the small house. Repeated calls to the police yielded no results since they "didn't really see nothin' happen, so how do we know ya ain't lyin'"? These episodes were repeated about two or three times per month.

Day one, we fixed a hole in her foundation that allowed the floor to droop downward away from the wall, leaving a gaping 12—inch hole for the rats to run in and out at will.  We re-roofed her sagging, leaking roof, and fixed her chimney and stovepipe to reduce the risk of this becoming a fire hazard. We re-floored her bedroom and patched sheetrock throughout the house. We painted the inside of the house and even fixed the bare—wired electrical outlets. We worked as hard as we could, but somehow, it seemed that every time we finished one project there were two more that we still needed to do.  We decided that we would have to come back and finish the exterior the next day.  We would fix all of the holes on the exterior and broken windows and then paint the house.

I was up at 5:30 am and looked outside.  Rain.  Pouring rain. Instantly, I panicked.  How would we finish Barbara's house?  A small voice reminded me that Jesus had controlled the storm on the lake and if I would just trust, He could do it again.  I relaxed and began my personal devotions.  By the time I had finished reviewing the story in scripture, I was sure that God would work a miracle for us.  During my prayer time, I asked God for a miracle.

I stepped out of my room and headed for the kitchen. One of the staff came into the dining area and informed me that the weatherman was calling for 100% chance of rain.  So far, he was right.  But the weatherman forgot to talk to my God about it.  Each time a student asked me what we were going to do, I simply answered, "We are going to pray and ask God not to let the weather interfere with our work and then go for it." 

They gave me that look that only teenagers can give.  That look that says,  "I think you'd be better off in a straight jacket," but simply shrugged their shoulders and just said, "OK, whatever".

At the close of worship, I asked everyone to join me in a prayer session where we claimed the promise found in John 14:13,14 "And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.  You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it."

"Lord", I prayed, "You've given us Your promise, and we believe that we are doing Your will.  Please don't let the rain interfere with our work.  May we show Your love to Barbara and her family today.  In Jesus name, Amen."

"All right, load up."  We headed out the door into the pouring rain.  The farther up the valley we drove, the harder it rained. "Um, Pastor Don," one teen ventured, "it's still raining."

Without thinking, I shot back, "We're not there yet!  He doesn't need for it to stop yet."  We drove on in silence.  Finally we turned onto the little road that led up the hillside to Barbara's little shack.  Amazingly, the higher we drove, the less it rained, until we finally turned off into her little driveway.  Just a mist now.  "All right, guys,"  I said, "God's done His part, let's do ours!"  By the time we finished unloading ladders and tools, the sun was beginning to peek out.  Our whole group was pumped!  God had performed a miracle just for us!

It was about an hour later, as I finished pounding a nail into some siding that I happened to look off the side of the mountain down to the main road that wound through the little town of Pineville, Kentucky.  It was then that I realized that we had a bigger miracle than we had at first realized.  I called the whole group together.

"Look down there.  What do you see?" I asked.  "Why, it's raining hard down there," someone exclaimed.  "Look, you can even see trucks and cars with their windshield wipers going." 

Another joined in, “Look, it’s raining so hard down there that the road almost looks white!”

"Hey guys, look over there to the left,” someone else exclaimed. 

Another yelled, “Hey, look to the right.” 

Everyone spun around to look behind us up over the mountain.  Sure enough.  Rain.  We had rain on every side!  We were under God's umbrella as we stood there in that little patch of bright sunshine looking 500 yards in every direction at the pouring rain.

John 14:13,14 "And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.  You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it."

Ed's Tohlet

By Don Keele Jr.

 

It was a frosty October morning.  A thin dusting of snow was on the ground as we drove up “Four-Mile Holler.”  Along the way sat rusted, bullet-ridden shells of old cars from the ‘20’s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s.  Black coal smoke came from several of the old shacks on each side of the road.  It almost appeared as if we were going back in time as we drove the winding road in this rural part of
Kentucky.  Some of the teens with me huddled further down in their warm coats as they imagined what life must be like for the people who lived in such run-down, rickety places.  We were on our way to see Ed and to work on his house as part of our on-going Appalachian Outreach project.

Ed lived at the very back of “Four-Mile Holler”.  A “holler” in Eastern Kentucky is a hollow between two mountains where the run-off water has carved a path on it’s way down to the valley.  This one was named “Four-Mile Holler” because it was exactly four miles long.   We were to later find out it was also known as a “shootin’ holler”.  A “shootin’-holler” is a hollow in which a feud is still going on.  This particular feud, I learned, had already lasted 126 years.  Ed had seen many people die in the feud, but since he had remained neutral, he was rarely shot at, though his house did sustain some bullet wounds received while he was entertaining members of one family or the other.

As we pulled up in front of Ed’s place, we began to realize that this was not going to be an easy job.  His “house”, to use the term loosely, sat back off the road at the confluence of two fairly large, rapidly-moving streams, one of which we would have to cross on a log that had been cut in half and laid across the creek.  This particular morning it was encrusted in a layer of ice that looked wickedly dangerous as it showed every twisted warp of a log perched about 8 feet above the wildly rushing creek.

My teens watched from the warmth of the van as I got a square-point shovel out of the trailer and began to slowly chip away the ice and inch my way across the treacherously uneven surface of the log. A gust of wind almost sent me plunging into the icy stream, but I held onto my shovel and braced against it. Ten long minutes of chipping and slowly inching my way across finally yielded success as I stepped out onto the other side.  I relaxed.  Too soon.

A giant dog leaped out of the tall weeds near the log bridge and snapped.  I screamed and leaped as the dog hit the end of the large logging chain restraining it.  The teens, watching from the warmth and safety of the van, screamed with me, but once they realized I was still alive, began to laugh at my plight.  I couldn’t get back across the log bridge if I wanted, and they weren’t about to come to my aid.

Fortunately for me, Ed had heard my scream and the door to the shanty jerked rapidly open.  A rather large man, slightly hunched over an adjustable, dirty metal cane, limped out onto the porch.

“GIT’OWN!” he screamed.  The large dog slunk back into the weeds.  I didn’t fully understand the language, but I was extremely glad the dog did.

“Hi!” I tried to sound cheerful despite my shaking knees and racing heart, “I’m Pastor Don.  Are you Ed?”

“Thasright” Ed replied. “Lemme git sum ashes to put on the log and tie back the dog.  Make him safer.”  He grabbed an old steel pail filled with coal ash and hobbled down to the creek bank where I still stood rooted to the ground.

“Take ‘is here and shovel it out on the log,” he instructed, handing me the pail.  He went and grabbed the beast and looped his chain over a large, metal stake farther back from the bridge, effectively making the landing safe.  I shoveled ash across the log and one by one the teens began spilling out of the van and making their way across.

“Can we pet your dog?” one of my students asked.  I was incredulous after my near-death experience.

“Well, I reckon ya can…jes don’t turn yore back on ‘im,” Ed responded.

“What do you mean, Ed?” I asked.

Ed didn’t reply, but bent down and rolled up his right pant leg to reveal a nasty looking six-inch scar on his calf.

“What happened?” we all asked, almost in unison.

“Well one day, I’s down here afeedin’ ‘im, and I turnt around to git some water, and the fool dog done grapped ahold a mah leg and wunt let go fur nothing!  He was agrowlin’ and a shakin his haid around, ‘bout to rip mah leg plumb off. Well…I commenced to jerkin’ on his jaws, an’ abeatin on his haid…but he won’t let me go.”

“How did you get him off?” I asked.

Ed looked up toward the side of his shack which had many old-fashioned iron objects hanging on the outside wall and said, “Ya see that big iron skillet ahangin’ over there?  Well I unhooked his chain and I went adraggin’ ‘im up there and got that ole’ skillet and I beat him on the haid till he went plumb out! Then I jerked his jaws offamah leg and dragged ‘eem back down there and hooked ‘eem up.  And ya know, that dog ain’t been right ever since.”

“Don’t touch the dog, kids.” I said

“Whul, that’s mah liddle dog.” Ed responded. “Mah big ‘un, I had to lock up afore you’uns got here. Had ‘em both bred special.  Part Doberman, part Rottweiler and part Pit Bull.  Not many get past ‘im on the bridge there. Kinda surprised you did.” He gave a look my way and I felt a new ripple of respect among the students.

“So Ed, what do you need us to do for you today?” I changed the topic while the respect was fresh.

“I needja to put a new wall in mah kichun. It fell out on to mah porch about 3 year ago. C‘mon on in…all uh you’uns.”

As we entered his house, the smell was almost an entity of its own. Getting past that, the next problem was finding a route through the junk.   From the front door, a trail led between stacks of old junk radios, magazines, eight track tape players, tapes, a car transmission and other assundry items, to the kitchen.  Another trail led from the main trail over to a TV that played in two colors, red and offset green.  Another trail went from the TV to the coal burning stove over in the corner and then from the coal burning stove back to the main trail.

In the kitchen, things weren’t much better. Actually, it got worse.  I did a double take as I looked at the dishes in the sink. The top ones looked alright, but as I looked deeper, I saw black and grey mold growing out from between the dishes on the bottom two-thirds of the stack.

“Ed,” I asked, “How long have these dishes been in the sink?”

“Well, Ah warshed ‘em all fur ‘bout the first 3 years after muh wife lef me.  Then figerd…ain’t no one eatin’ off’n these but me—so ah’ll jes’ warsh the ones ah need when ah need ‘em.”

“And how long ago did your wife leave you, Ed?”

“Les see,” he scratched his head, “it’s been ‘bout fifteen year ago.”

“WHAT?  So your saying these dishes have been in the sink for twelve YEARS?” I asked incredulously.

“Dat ud be ‘bout right,” he concluded proudly.

I asked him where they went when they were all clean.  He pointed to a cabinet.  I opened the cabinet to find a lot of rat and mouse droppings and an old Oatmeal box and a box of grits with long grey mold growing out of the side.  As a matter of fact, mold abounded.  I marveled.  This  would certainly be a place where penicillin could gain a foothold.

The back wall of the kitchen was completely gone–rotted away, with the remains lying on top of a broken down porch floor.  All that was left was the screened-in walls of the porch, inside of which Ed had stapled black plastic as a shield against the cold.  The floor of the porch was rotted through, and to one side of the porch, was another “bedroom”.  Actually, it was more of a storage area for more junk, with rotting floors.

I marshalled the troops, about 15 high-schoolers, and a couple of adult sponsors and prepared them for battle.  We would clean the junk out of the living room, clean the kitchen, even washing dishes and cleaning out cupboards, and carrying out all of the garbage.  We would also build a new wall into his kitchen.  The porch and back half would have to wait for another day. This would probably take us all day.

Once all of them were busy, Ed had one more request.  “I’s wunderin’, preacher,  couldja do somthin’ ‘bout mah tohlet?  It kindly peenches.”

“Your what?”

“Mah Tohlet.  It kindly peenches.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Ed.  Why don’t you show me,” I suggested.

He then led me around the corner to his bathroom.   A whole new smell emerged.  Old urine and waste smells lurched out and pierced my nose.  He pointed to the toilet.  A quick glance at the seat and Ed’s problem was obvious. Apparently he had slipped and fallen, and the front half of the ring had broken away from the back half and they were only joined now by pieces of plexiglass and superglue on the underside.  So every time Ed would sit, it would “kindly peench” him.  

Glancing around the rest of the bathroom revealed a nasty looking sink as well as a tub and shower enclosure. The tub and side walls were a deep rust color that looked to be layers thick.  The glass doors were also covered in whatever it was.  It was apparent that we needed to do something about that as well.

I had to ask.  “Ed,” I ventured, “how long has it been since you cleaned your tub?”

“Mah wife warshed it real good jes’ before she left.”

“You’re telling me it’s been fifteen years?” He nodded.

One of the adults headed to town to find a toilet seat, while I went to the back of the trailer to find some long rubber gloves and strong cleaning supplies, a few brushes, some steel wool pads and whatever else seemed potentially helpful for the task at hand, then headed back in, looking for a teenager to redirect.  In the meantime, Ed said he was tired and shuffled off to the back of the house to lay down for a nap.

Spying a student not doing anything, I called for him to follow me.  I led him into the bathroom and showed him the nasty shower and tub enclosure. He swallowed hard and started turning pale.  Obviously fighting back waves of nausea, he began to try to speak.  Nothing came out, so he motioned for me to follow him.  He ran outside.  I followed.

“Pastor Don,” he began, “if you want that shower cleaned”…long pause…careful thought…deep breath… “you’re going to have to do it yourself, ‘cause I ain’t touchin’ that thing!”  With that, he turned and ran back to the job he was supposed to be helping with before I had called him.

“OoooK,” I thought to myself, “it’s up to you, big guy.  You’ve got to buck up and show them a little servant-leadership.”

I donned the heavy rubber gloves and picked up my cleaning supplies.  This was do or die.  Put up or shut up.  I headed in, and the odor once again attacked my senses.  Shut up was sounding like a better option all the time.  I looked back and saw 5 teen-age guys watching me wavering at the door. No backing down now or I would never hear the end of it.   I plunged in determined to conquer or be conquered.

I slid open the shower door and peered in. It was worse than I had imagined. A brown, encrusted goo hung on the sides of the shower.  I aimed my spray bottle of strong chemicals in and began pumping furiously, thoroughly saturating the sides and bottom, and then quickly retreated to the fresh air outside.  

Back inside I attacked with the scrub brush and the goo started peeling off in layers.  Layer after layer came off as the strong cleaning agents worked overtime.  As each layer glopped to the bottom of the tub, I scooped it up and plopped it in a heavy-duty garbage bag.  Then it was spray and repeat. The toxic combination of cleaning supplies and incumbent smells necessitated taking frequent breaks to gasp in some fresh air.

Three hours and 8 layers later, it was beginning to look better.  My runaway student abruptly reappeared at the bathroom door.

“Umm…” he began.  “I’ve been thinking about things, Pastor Don.  And I’ve been feeling a little guilty for running off.  So, if you really…long pause…um…want me to…big swallow…work on that shower…extremely long pause while choosing his words carefully…I guess I will…adding rapidly…so you can get started on that toilet.”

I had almost forgotten.  He handed me a new toilet seat and I relinquished the scrub brushes and chemicals.  Still wearing my heavy gloves, I tried to lift the seat.  It was stuck fast.  There was a black and brown substance holding it tight.  I went out to the trailer, procured a long, thick screwdriver,  a wrench and a Makita cordless drill, and set out to find the screws that kept the lid attached.  Using the long screwdriver, I pried the seat loose and as it popped up, suddenly a whole new smell emerged.  The kid and I both ran, gagging and retching, outdoors.   It was then I spotted what was to be our new friend.  On top of an army stretcher piled high with junk, that some of the boys were carrying out to the barn, lay a rather large box fan.

“Wait,” I shouted, “Does that thing still work?”

“Dunno,” came the response, “didn’t try it.”

My bathroom buddy and I were on it likes flies on stink.  We hauled it to the nearest outlet and plugged it in.  Miraculously the blades started spinning and we felt like we had won a small victory.

We hauled it into the bathroom and put it in the already open window.  We plugged it in and immediately the stench eased.  Just as quickly, however, the people hauling stuff past the window started yelling and gagging as the toxic air spewed forth.

It was back to work. I chipped and scraped the offending substances into the toilet and flushed, repeating the process until I was down to the porcelain.  A few borrowed chemicals and scrub brushes soon had it looking good. Now to the seat.

Scraping down, I located the screws and carved out a slot on top.  Then kneeling down, I realized that there was no dignified way to change a toilet seat.  You simply cannot accomplish the task without hugging the bowl.  Working furiously, again with “air breaks”,  I worked on breaking the nuts loose.  The first took about 45 minutes;  the second about 25. (I learned some tricks on the first one that helped with the second)  Needless to say it was one of the most nauseating, disgusting tasks I’ve ever undertaken.

As I knelt there hugging that bowl, suddenly the thought struck me: “Is this what it means to be a servant of Jesus Christ?”  And as I reflected on the life of Jesus, coming from all of heaven’s glory and splendor down to the dump Satan has made of His creation; the toilet bowl of the universe, if you will, with the ugly mold and goo of sin growing from our hearts, I had to concede that I was probably closer to being a disciple, hugging Ed’s “tohlet”, than I had ever been.   For we are never more like Jesus than when we serve.

Mark 10:42-45 NIV Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them.  43 Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, 44 and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. 45 For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”