Chapter Twelve
Miss Daisy
Miss Daisy, as we came to call her, could’ve been my Nana — five feet tall, a bundle of joy and energy, with a work ethic at seventy that could put most people half her age to shame. Miss Daisy was one of the homeowners who reached out to us for help. My husband died 20 years ago, she told us, and he never finished the electric work. I have outlets in every room, but no overhead lights. Sometimes it’s hard at night, just trying to find my way around the hallway.
I promised we’d do our best, though electrical work wasn’t usually something our student groups tackled. But as it happened - a father and daughter duo were part of our team. He was an electrical contractor back home, and she knew enough to do more than just hold a flashlight. We were set. Four ceiling lights - not with pull cords, but full wall switches - and even a brand-new porch light. I offered to help, but quickly realized everyone was better off leaving the work to the pros.
Our work teams rotated weekly - they’d head home on Saturdays and new ones arrived Sunday afternoons. Before that handoff, Miss Daisy asked us something special: Will y’all come to church with me on Sunday? I’ll be sittin’ right here at 8:00. Don’t want to be late.
And so, just as she promised, there she was on her front porch - probably even earlier than 8 a.m. - dressed in her Sunday best, her hat perfectly tilted, waiting with pride. Sherri and I, along with our own kids, picked her up.
We arrived early for church and were greeted with warmth. Miss Daisy introduced us to the congregation and with a grin and a little flair: These are my new friends from New York City! she said, half-laughing, half-bragging, half-kidding. As the service began, the pastor opened the floor: Any prayer requests or praises this morning?
That’s when the moment came — one we never saw coming.
Miss Daisy stepped into the aisle. Slowly, playfully, she began singing her own version of Movin’ On Up, the theme from the then popular TV show The Jefferson’s. A few dance steps followed as the congregation laughed and clapped along.
I’m movin’ on up... Not to the East Side... but now I’m in the big leagues... I got me some ceiling lights! The joy was contagious. She shared about the teens and adults who’d worked on her home, the laughter they shared, the kindness that had filled her week.
Later that day, back at her home, came the second surprise - she invited us in for Sunday lunch. And it was no small meal. It felt like Sunday at Sylvia’s in Harlem - ham, sweet potatoes, macaroni and cheese, collard greens. The works.
She honored me by asking me to slice the ham, but as I stood there, I felt a quiet ache inside. I knew she lived off her late husband’s coal mining pension. A meal like this wasn’t something she could easily afford.
But that day, I learned something I’ll never forget - the importance of receiving love with grace. That lunch was a gift - cooked with love, offered with joy - and one of the greatest memories we carry from that summer. It reminded me that the work we were doing wasn’t just about keeping homes warm and dry. It was about letting people be seen, honored, and known.
From Brooklyn to Appalachia.
Seventeen years old. Two suitcases in hand. I stepped off the Greyhound bus at the Richmond, Kentucky, bus depot - a tiny dot on the map of my new world. With my bags in tow, I walked the half-mile to my dormitory, the place I'd call home for the next four years.
I had no idea what adventures Kentucky held for me, but it would become the place where I earned my college degree, led a fraternity, met the person I’d marry, and—more than anything—began to find my place in the world.
Brooklyn was where I called home. New Jersey had shaped my junior high and teenage years. By the time I was fourteen, my dad had made it clear I’d be paying my own way from that moment on: a car, insurance, dating, college, travel, a wedding and anything else I needed or desired. He handed me a five-dollar bill as a sign of his final commitment to me. I figured every teen got that message as part of High School 101. I never once complained. I accepted the money as I smiled. That simple conversation planted the seeds for a life built on independence, responsibility, and a quiet kind of maturity. I was excited to be on my own.
Culture shock is the best way to describe what I felt that day on campus - and still do, looking back. I didn’t own a Brooklyn accent or a Jersey one, but I knew mine was different. And yet, my transition to Kentucky life was fast - and surprisingly beautiful. I loved the slower pace, the warmth and hospitality of the people, the mountains, the Bluegrass, and the curiosity that woke up in me.
Every day for four years, I devoured The Courier-Journal, one of the leading newspapers in the state at the time. I was like a book with blank pages, ready to be written - ready to explore, to learn, and to graduate with confidence and direction.
My junior year was shaping up to be the best year of my life. Within hours of Sherri arriving on campus, I met her - that girl from a place called Ohio, the state the Greyhound Bus had carried me through for the first time. It could’ve been a Hallmark Movie: boy (with fraternity pin) meets cute girl, and the rest is history. We spent weekends exploring the mountain roads in my old 1950s Oldsmobile -mchasing waterfalls, creeks, state parks, and the kind of mom-and-pop restaurants that gave the landscape its flavor. We even made it to Churchill Downs and Keeneland, just because!
We did the fraternity and sorority thing. I worked at a local restaurant, and together to earn some money we wallpapered apartments in downtown Richmond — the early roots of what would eventually become Mike The Painter, our own contracting business.
But more than the places, it was the people. The professors at Eastern. The Dean of Students. A kind local retired couple who hired me to do their yard work. The cafeteria staff, my roommates, the guys on our floor, and of course, my fraternity brothers. Each of them played a role in shaping a kid who was miles from home.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but God must’ve been working overtime with me. Paul, one of my fraternity brothers and I walked across town to church almost every Sunday morning – and of course we stopped for breakfast on the way back to campus. I can’t recall many sermons from that time, but I know I was being grounded in a new way. I was starting to take a stand, to make faith a steady priority in my life. I’m sure my mom and grandmother are still looking down, smiling at how their early investment in my faith was starting to bear fruit – yes, even as a college student.
College graduation was bittersweet. I did my student teaching in a big-city school in Louisville and interviewed for jobs afterward. But money talked - recruiters from Maryland came with offers 25% higher than anything local. Their $6,500-a-year offer was too good to pass up for a young couple just weeks away from marriage. And so, we thought we were leaving Kentucky.
We had no idea what was ahead. At the time, we could’ve been Ambassadors for the Bluegrass State — sharing stories of the people, the culture, the unexpected richness of it all. But God had other plans.
Appalachian Service Project
Years later, we returned to the region in a new role - no longer students, but volunteer youth leaders for about twenty-five high school students. Thankfully, we joined efforts with the Appalachian Service Project (ASP), whose mission was simple and powerful: to make homes warm and dry. I didn’t know it then, but that one week - lived out side by side, day and night with our team - would lay the eternal foundation for my understanding of discipleship.
It was the first time I realized I could combine my love for coaching, teaching and building things with a greater vision for walking alongside others in faith. I didn’t understand the full potential of it back then, but here we are fifty years later - still involved in the lives of many who joined us in our maiden mission week.
The mountain community welcomed us in, and I began to realize the world could be my new classroom. I could teach, challenge, and set a standard for growth anywhere - not just in a school building or a church. The students were eager to learn what it meant to grow in faith while gaining a lifelong passion for service. Back then, and just starting our marriage, we never imagined this would be part of our church life — but God had a slow, steady plan that He was unveiling in His own time.
The following summer, we volunteered again - this time as part of ASP’s summer staff. I guess our faith was growing more than we imagined. No paycheck. No plan. Just belief that it would all work out. Andrea was five. Adam was two. Like us, they didn’t understand what was ahead that summer.
We were housed in the attic of an old house on a college campus, mattresses on the floor, showers down the hall, and three meals a day in the cafeteria. My role was to assess homeowner building needs around the region, coordinate weekly work teams, and occasionally help get projects started. Our little family just jumped in wherever we could. Andrea and Adam ended up with dozens of new big brothers and sisters every week. Life was chaotic and beautiful.
We worked six days a week. On the last day of summer, we realized something funny - we’d been so busy all summer, we never put the beds together. All summer, we’d just kept sleeping on the mattresses on the floor. But by the end of that summer, discipleship felt real. We had worked with people of all faiths, from all over the country. We’d walked with junior high and high school students who needed a break from their lives back home — and somehow, that space we made for them gave us more in return than we ever expected.
Appalachia Construction Company
In the years that followed, we continued to lead our youth ministry into the mountains, we called ourselves the Appalachia Construction Company. It started with hammers, paintbrushes, and minor repairs—but slowly, something deeper began to stir.
One evening during a reflection session, everything changed. It began with a simple question: Would you want to live in the house we worked on this week? What started as casual conversation soon turned into something far more serious. The students weren't being critical—they were being honest. And from that honesty came conviction. They weren’t just there to patch things up. They wanted to do more. They had fallen in love with the people, the culture, and the community. And they wanted to build something that would last.
They believed they could learn to build a house from the ground up. They believed we could find the money. They believed they could make a difference.
Their thinking was naive—but also bold, beautiful, and exactly what I needed to hear. We had become something more than a youth group. We were becoming a movement. A team of risk-takers with a purpose that went beyond fun, games, and pizza nights. These students weren’t just showing up—they were showing up for others.
When we returned home, we committed to their vision. The following spring, sixty teens and adults began meeting every Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m. We studied leadership, learned construction techniques, discussed team dynamics, and dared to believe this dream could happen.
And then summer came - with a destination and just enough money.
In true unorthodox fashion, we began rough framing the house in our church parking lot, partially blocking the front entrance. It was messy, noisy, and inconvenient - and the congregation loved it. (But some who lost their favorite parking spaces – not so much) People began to rally around the vision. Donations came in. Support grew.
Then we took it to the foothills.
Sixty teens and adults built our first home in just five days. Seventh through twelfth graders, supported by a handful of adults, worked shoulder to shoulder learning real skills: framing, roofing, siding, drywall, carpentry, painting, even rough wiring. We handled the phases of construction that students could legally and safely do. The homeowner would be responsible for plumbing, kitchen, bathroom, and heating.
We knew our limits - and we respected them. But we also believed in the unlimited potential of a well-led student.
Some of the adults on the project mentored one or two students, training them to be future crew leaders. And with every new house we built in the years ahead, we needed fewer adults with construction experience. What we needed was adults who believed in teenagers. Adults who were willing to coach, encourage, and stay out of the way when needed. Adults who understood that teens will rise to meet the expectations you set - especially when those expectations are rooted in purpose.
We didn’t just build houses.
We built confidence, leadership, teamwork, faith, and a vision for what youth ministry could become when it’s less about keeping kids busy and entertained and more about empowering them to build something real. In the years that followed we built many, many houses.
People of the Region
I would be remiss if I skipped the story of Tex Evans, the founder of Appalachia Service Project - because his words are still alive in my soul today. One evening, Tex visited our group at a home we were working on. I was in my twenties — and to me, Tex seemed ancient. Maybe a hundred! I remember telling myself, I hope I’m like him when I reach that age!
He sat in an old wooden kitchen chair, and we gathered around him at his feet, right there in a gravel driveway. I imagine he had spoken to hundreds of groups by then. His talk was polished, passionate, and direct. You will meet a lot of people this week, he began. Make sure you don’t make promises to them. Don’t tell them you’ll write letters, or send money, or come back — unless you mean it. His voice cracked, and his eyes shimmered. People are different here. They are good people. Their word means something. They know when they can count on their neighbor, and when they can’t. You are strangers. They don’t know if they can trust you. So be careful what you promise. You’ve got a whole week to love them - but be careful when it’s over.
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t angry. But you could feel the weight of his words. I think every one of us felt like we’d just been sat down by our grandfather and lovingly corrected. Then Tex paused. He looked at us again and said, Now I’ve got something even more important to tell you. We leaned in.
In addition to what I just said, do not tell the people you will pray for them — unless you really will. This is as much for you as it is for them. Don’t get in the habit of just saying words. Your words matter. Your integrity matters. I hope you’ll think about that all week long.He paused again, this time more gently. And when you go home, you can leave knowing you loved them for who they are - and honored the love and respect they showed you.
That moment changed me. Up to that point in my life, no one had said anything like that. I’d always been in faith-based spaces where people said I’ll pray for you like punctuation. Tex’s words hit differently. And I made that promise to myself that night — one I’ve kept for decades now. It’s been the hardest challenge of my life – but definitely one of the best.
The Coal Mine
Student internships became an integral part of our youth ministry. They gave young people a chance to step into leadership - something rarely offered to high school students. Some internships were volunteer-based, others came with modest stipends ranging from free – to three-hundred – to one-thousand dollars. Each opportunity varied in length, from two weeks to two months, and was shaped by ministry needs, student availability, individual talents, and - most importantly - passion.
Our Appalachia initiatives provided a range of these intern opportunities over the years. One story in particular captures the depth and heart of what these experiences were meant to be. It involved a team of six high school freshmen interns, leading a mission trip deep into Kentucky’s coal-mining region. The task: help build a house for a local resident over the course of three weeks.
Each week, a new team of students from our group would arrive Sunday evening and serve through Friday. Saturdays and most of Sunday were reserved for teaching, rest, team-building, and preparing the interns to welcome the next team.
A key part of our preparation for the week ahead was cultural education. We didn’t just want our students to serve - we wanted them to understand. To see, hear, and feel the heartbeat of Appalachia. We talked about the people, the history, the economy, and the resilience. When possible, we introduced the students to locals whose stories made the culture come alive.
And then came the opportunity of all opportunities.
Maybe it was because I grew up in the city —a world away from these mountain hollers—but I had always been fascinated by the coal mining industry. I had read about it since my first days at Eastern Kentucky State Teachers College, intrigued by what went on beneath the surface of these peaceful hills. Over time, my curiosity led to long conversations with both retired and active miners. Their stories - both joyful and heartbreaking - captivated me. They painted a picture of an entire way of life built underground.
I was content just to listen. But then Paul, a local miner we met that week, offered me something I never expected: the chance to go underground and see it for myself. Paul arranged a special visit on a Sunday morning, when the mine was shut down and it was safe for us to enter. He secured permission for the interns to join me for the trip.
I doubt the teens shared my childhood-level excitement at first. That is, until we climbed into the motorized coal buggy and began our descent into the mine. We wore hard hats and safety glasses, ducking low for most of the ride. Our headlamps lit the narrow path ahead, with only the occasional light bulb hanging from above.
We stopped frequently as Paul pointed out the coal seam that ran for miles through the earth. He showed us the machinery, the tight working quarters, and the carts used to move coal to the railcars above. His pride was unmistakable. This was his world - his family’s legacy - and now he was sharing it with us.
I can’t remember if I embarrassed myself with my wide-eyed enthusiasm, but I suspect I did. The students may not have dreamed of this like I had, but in that moment, they knew they were part of something rare. This wasn’t just a tour - it was an invitation into a hidden world.
For Paul, I think it was one of his best days. He stood tall (as tall as one can in a coal mine) as he told us of his family's history and the generations who had relied on the mine. His pride wasn’t boastful - it was sacred. He honored his roots, and in doing so, helped us appreciate a culture too often misunderstood.
That mine visit climbed high on my list of unexpected blessings. It fulfilled a lifelong curiosity, yes - but more than that, it offered something profound to our students. They weren’t just here to build houses. They were here to build understanding. They were here to fall in love with a people, to see the value in a different way of life, and to lead with humility.
That morning underground wasn’t about coal. It was about connection. And it was a gift from Paul - one he likely never imagined would have such lasting impact.
Spring Break In the Holler
One unforgettable year, we had a Senior class in our ministry unlike any other - bold, tight-knit, and full of heart. So, we gathered a dozen of them at our house, handed out snacks, and dropped a surprise bombshell: What kind of trip do you want to take for Spring Break - something epic to celebrate your years of friendship, leadership, and all those mission efforts you’ve poured yourselves into?
We raised the stakes by saying, You’ve got one hour. Sherri and I are stepping out, and when we return, we want a decision - maybe a tropical escape, maybe something wild and unexpected. Your call. The room fell silent, jaws literally dropped. Eyes darted around. Was this real? Before they could fully process the offer, we grabbed our keys, smiled like we were in a movie scene, and walked out the door - leaving behind a mix of stunned faces and rapidly hatching dreams.
Their decision? They wanted to return to Appalachia - to build another home for someone in need. While most high school seniors might have chosen beaches or resorts, they chose hammers and hard hats. And in response to their selfless decision, I made one of my own: we were going to do this trip first class. Not in a flashy or luxurious way—but with honor, dignity, and care. And as it often does when the mission is right, the funding came together effortlessly.
Our goal remained simple: get the house under roof and let the homeowner take it from there. We found a new family. A new mountain community. A new set of challenges. The mission was set. We booked a roadside motel - humble, worn around the edges, and absolutely perfect. It had just enough rooms and just enough beds. Real mattresses. Clean sheets. Plenty of pillows. Hot showers and fresh towels. Air conditioning that worked... most of the time. And in every drawer, a Gideon Bible waiting quietly, as always.
Attached to the motel was a little mom-and-pop restaurant where we had breakfast each morning—something entirely new for many of the students. Biscuits and gravy quickly became a favorite. For lunch, we picked up groceries daily. And every evening, we returned to the hotel for a hot meal. Once the staff learned why we were in town, they doubled their hospitality. They treated our group like family.
By most standards, it wasn’t luxury. But for a mission trip for us? It was gold. And the students loved it – gone were the cold showers, sleeping on the floor and sharing chaos.
We let go of our typical rhythm - work hard, play hard, study hard, sleep hard - and adapted to the flow of this particular moment. No scheduled games. No sightseeing. No travel adventures. They didn’t need it. The work was the joy.
Every student had years of hands-on experience - many had even led younger teams before. They knew how to frame walls, raise roofs, hang drywall, stomp ceilings, install siding, build porches, and set windows and doors. At just seventeen or eighteen, they needed little coaching.
Our adult leaders didn’t run the project—we simply ensured safety, managed materials, and maintained quality. The students led the charge. They set the pace. They were determined to finish their portion of the house in just five and a half working days. Some were out before the sun. Others stayed late into the fading light, sweeping sawdust and double-checking measurements.
And when it was finished—there were no trophies. No spotlight. No social media splash. No one was named a leader. But everyone led.
Their success wasn’t measured in square footage or perfectly mitered corners. It was measured in sacrifice - choosing to spend their senior Spring Break building a future for someone else, high in the mountains.
They redefined what’s possible when young people are both challenged and believed in.
They had already fallen in love with the people, the land, the stories, the struggle, and the strength of the Appalachian community. They became fluent in compassion and fluent in community. They didn’t need applause or attention - they had purpose.
Their faith ran deep - not performative, not shallow. They didn’t just talk about living out what they believed. They lived it.
Closing Thoughts
Our time in Appalachia was more than service—it was sacred ground where hearts were stretched, faith deepened, and lives quietly transformed. In the dust of old mountain roads and the rhythm of hammers and prayer, students discovered what it meant to lead with humility and serve with joy. They left behind more than homes under roof - they left pieces of their soul in every beam, every porch, every handshake. And in return, they carried home something priceless: a purpose rooted in compassion, community, and a faith that was lived, not just spoken.
Kentucky Colonel
This story marks the conclusion of the Appalachia chapter, and it's one I want to tell with great care. For Robin, this moment would be considered one of the most meaningful times of her life - because she lives to bless others. Her love for me, her commitment to the teens she served alongside us, and her deep affection for her husband Harold and Harold’s grandfather (who was friends with the Governor of Kentucky at the time) all came together to create a perfect storm of kindness and purpose. But this isn't just a story about Robin’s heart—though that alone could fill pages.
One winter evening, Harold and Robin arrived at our home unexpectedly, carrying a gift. I opened it with curiosity and excitement. Robin had been my unwavering advocate, protector, and prayer warrior throughout decades of youth ministry. We had shared countless hours side by side, serving together through some of the most meaningful seasons of our lives.
What I unwrapped that night took my breath away: Robin had nominated me for the title of Kentucky Colonel, the highest civilian honor in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. I was stunned, humbled, and deeply moved. Robin understood the depth of our shared history, especially our work in the Appalachian region, and this recognition felt like a reflection of those years of dedication.
The Honorary Kentucky Colonel Award is the highest title of honor bestowed by the state of Kentucky. It is awarded in the name of the Commonwealth by the governor of Kentucky to individuals for noteworthy accomplishments, contributions to civil society, remarkable deeds, or outstanding service to the community, state, or nation.
Receiving this award was an incredible honor. But what meant even more was knowing that Robin had done this—for me. That act of love, of acknowledgment, is something I’ll carry with me always.