The Coal House

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Thoughts on poverty distort my mind.

Simply because they break my heart.

I grew up in the Appalachian hills, not exactly well known for luxuries and riches. Oh, we had plenty. More than enough.  Most folks in my town considered my parents to be wealthy.  Food, shelter, and clothing was always in abundance.  THAT was wealthy.

But  many folks were not like us.  There were those who lived on welfare and government aid, simply because the job economy was non-existent.  At times, the coal mines laid off and the lumber mills barely produced, and the little town with a population of 2,000, including the “suburbs,” was mostly poverty-stricken.

My dad drove a church bus on Sundays; from the time I was six years old, I can remember riding in those vans. Gathering children from every hollow and hillside of that small town, in order to bring them to Sunday School, my dad was ever so faithful.

For many years, my sister and I, or a friend and I, or my dad and I would visit families on Saturday with the hope of winning their hearts to trust us to take them to church on Sunday.  This combination of ministry brought the love of Jesus to country folks.

Simple kindness and the offer of transportation was considered to be such an honor.

DumDums and Tootsie Rolls combined with the infamous “drawing”  won over many a child AND adult alike to attending church.   If you came every week in the month, your name went in a hat and Dad would have one of the riders pull out a name at the end of the month to see who won the prize, which was a trinket Dad knew would be considered beautiful in the eyes of the beholder.

Throughout those years of growing up under my father’s ministry to the families of the town, there is one lady I could never forget.

The family was dirt poor…

no, they were rich in dirt, but poor in wealth. They had virtually nothing.

And on top of nothing they had dirt.

Dirt floors.

Dirty clothes.

Dirty bodies. Not just smelly, visually filthy.

Dirty dishes.

The most food I ever saw cooking on their coal stove was a big pot of brown beans with a swarm of flies hovering over them.  They couldn’t afford pinto beans.

And the grandmother of this family, the one who holds the title of matriarch?

Her bed was in the coal house.

Truly, it was.

Black with soot, a mattress with four cinder blocks as bedposts, there lie her blanket, no sheets, and what appeared to have been a pillow at one time.  Only a makeshift coal stove had been placed in the little shack and the wind seeping through the cracks of the walls often blew out the fire.

While I’ve never forgotten my early observations of poverty, my heart is torn right now.  Just a couple messages from my husband in one of the most poverty-stricken countries in the world, and I immediately want to be where he is. Seeing what he sees. Hearing what he hears. Smelling what he smells.

Because I need to be reminded of what to do with that little woman in the coal house.

She’s not there any more.

But someone else is.