I sat wedged between two ladies I worked with and clutched both of their arms as we ascended into the air above Birmingham Municipal Airport.

There was that unmistakable sinking feeling in my stomach as the massive jet gathered speed, thundered down the runway, and then somehow—against everything my nervous mind believed to be reasonable—lifted into the Alabama sky.

I was terrified.

Just one day earlier, I had sat in my office and written a goodbye letter to my mother.

Yes, a goodbye letter.

I was flying to California for the first time on business, and I was afraid to tell her.

My mother had always possessed a tremendous fear of flying, and somewhere along the way she had apparently decided that if she wasn’t getting on an airplane, neither should I. She had repeatedly insisted that I never fly.

Unfortunately, my career had other plans.

Our marketing team from Jack’s Restaurants was headed to San Diego for a conference. When Mom asked where I was going, I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her the truth.

“West of Louisiana,” I said.

Technically, I wasn’t lying.

California is certainly west of Louisiana.

The goodbye letter was sealed and left with a trusted friend, with instructions that it be delivered should my maiden voyage across the country end tragically.

Looking back, I realize how ridiculous I was.

Days later, I returned safely to Birmingham and visited Mom carrying a beautiful blanket I had purchased in Tijuana. She admired it for approximately five seconds before narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“You’ve been on a plane!”

There are moments when mothers simply know.

I laughed and confessed. Yes, I had flown. Yes, I had survived. And yes, I had gone considerably farther west than Louisiana.

She made me promise never to do it again.

Dad, although perhaps more concerned that his son had somehow ended up in California, tried to reason with her. Travel was becoming part of my career. Flying wasn’t something I could realistically avoid.

Sure enough, within a few years my job involved nearly seventy-five percent travel, much of it by airplane.

And something unexpected happened.

I grew to love it.

The fear disappeared and was replaced by excitement. For a young executive in his late twenties, it felt like a jet-set lifestyle. Airports became familiar. Hotels became temporary homes. Rental cars, boarding passes and restaurant receipts became part of my everyday existence.

Mom never learned to love it.

Her rule remained firm: I had to call her immediately before boarding and again as soon as the plane touched the ground.

Despite the dramatic relationship between my mother, airplanes and me, those years allowed me to see this magnificent country of ours. I crossed America from one side to the other and was blessed again and again with safe departures and safe arrivals.

There were, however, a few memorable flights.

One particular trip from Oklahoma City to Dallas remains near the top of that list.

Storms caused a three-hour delay, and when we finally departed, the flight was filled with turbulence. The airplane shook and dipped while nervous passengers exchanged those uncomfortable looks strangers give one another when everyone is thinking the same thing but nobody wants to say it aloud.

We finally landed in Dallas, only to discover that I had missed my connection to Birmingham.

I was stranded for another night.

My luggage remained somewhere in the mysterious bowels of the airline system. All I had was a carry-on containing my laptop and Franklin Covey planner. The airline placed us in a motel near the airport and provided disposable toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, shampoo and conditioner.

No deodorant.

Apparently, there are limits to compassion.

The storm raged throughout the night, and I didn’t sleep a wink.

By six the next morning I was back at the airport, exhausted and desperate to get home. When I finally boarded the Southwest flight to Birmingham, I grabbed the first seat I could find. It had wonderful legroom, and as we climbed above Texas and eventually glided toward Louisiana and Mississippi, I decided to close my eyes.

Somewhere along the way, I fell into a deep sleep.

Midway through the flight, a sweet, shy flight attendant with strawberry-blonde hair tapped me on the shoulder. She squatted beside my seat and spoke in the tender voice one might use to awaken a sleeping child—or perhaps tranquilize a bear.

“Sir, you are stomping the floor in your sleep like you’re trying to stop the plane. And you’re snoring so loudly the entire plane can hear you. Do you think you can stay awake until we get to Birmingham?”

I wiped the drool from my mouth and looked around.

The expressions on my fellow passengers were not encouraging.

I was embarrassed for approximately twenty seconds.

Then I realized I would probably never see any of those people again.

So I went back to sleep.

My friend Deborah Burroughs understands the necessity of sleeping on an airplane.

For her, however, the destination isn’t California, Dallas or Birmingham.

It is Tanzania.

And the journey can take eighteen hours.

Deborah is a missionary, traveling across oceans and continents to serve God in communities far removed from the comfortable world she knows in Alabama. Sleep becomes her refuge during those seemingly endless flights, particularly when she finds herself squeezed into a middle seat between two strangers.

But eventually the airplane descends.

The doors open.

And Deborah steps into Africa.

After spending nearly an entire day confined inside airplanes and airports, there is something almost sacred about placing her feet upon the earth again. The exhaustion of travel gives way to anticipation because Deborah knows why she has come.

She has come to serve.

She has come to listen.

She has come to tell people about Jesus.

And when evening settles over Tanzania, the African sky seems almost too enormous to comprehend.

Away from the glow of American cities and the artificial lights that compete with the heavens, darkness stretches across the landscape like a vast curtain. Stars emerge in numbers that can make a person feel incredibly small and yet somehow intimately known. The horizon seems farther away. The heavens appear wider. The night possesses a stillness that invites reflection.

Deborah can sit beneath that sky and remember another sky thousands of miles away.

An Alabama sky.

A childhood sky.

A sky reflected in the waters of Lake Wedowee.

Perhaps that is one of the extraordinary things about God. He can take us halfway around the world only to remind us where we came from.

Deborah’s first missionary trip to Tanzania was not immediately comfortable.

She watched experienced missionaries follow the training and protocols established by the group’s leaders. They seemed confident and prepared. Deborah, by comparison, felt inadequate.

The methods didn’t feel natural to her.

She questioned whether she could do this.

Then, after several days and time spent personally in prayer, something changed. Deborah began to understand that perhaps God had not carried her across an ocean so she could become someone else.

He wanted Deborah.

Her words.

Her personality.

Her voice.

Her heart.

So she began ministering in the manner that felt genuine.

She would walk through a village calling out a greeting and hear a welcome in return.

The homes she approached were nothing like the comfortable houses that populate the communities of Alabama. Small huts and humble dwellings stood against the African landscape, simple structures sheltering lives that could easily be judged by American standards as lacking.

Yet Deborah began to see something beyond walls and possessions.

She saw people.

A woman might be tending a garden. Someone might be hanging clothing beneath that enormous sky. Children might move nearby while the ordinary rhythms of family life continued around them.

Deborah would be welcomed.

Sometimes her seat might be a simple mat.

Sometimes an old bucket.

There might be no upholstered chair, climate-controlled room or carefully decorated sanctuary.

And none of that mattered.

Because the Gospel did not require stained glass.

It required a willing heart.

Sitting there among people whose material possessions could be counted far more easily than her own, Deborah discovered the freedom to speak about Christ in her own words.

Something began changing inside her.

She had traveled to Africa believing she was going there to minister to others.

God was ministering to her.

Deborah has returned to Tanzania many times through the years, and each journey has revealed something new about herself and about the Lord she serves. Trading American conveniences for a tent beneath the African sky has given her a perspective she could never have acquired from the comfort of home.

There is beauty in the simplicity.

There is holiness in the stillness.

And there is conviction in witnessing people who possess so little materially yet demonstrate joy that people surrounded by abundance spend fortunes trying to find.

Perspective.

That word has become important to Deborah.

She loves encouraging people to think outside the box, to move from the familiar place where they have grown comfortable and look at life from another angle.

She even jokingly tells Christians to change seats in church occasionally.

Sit somewhere else.

Look at the sanctuary differently.

See people you don’t normally see.

Change your perspective.

Deborah understands something about perspective because long before she ever slept beneath an African sky, she was a little girl growing up near the riverbanks and waters of Lake Wedowee.

The Alabama of her childhood possessed a beauty all its own.

Lake Wedowee spread beneath Southern skies, its waters slipping along wooded banks where pine and hardwood trees leaned toward the shoreline. In the mornings, mist could soften the landscape, and by evening the lowering sun painted the water with reflections of gold.

It was beautiful.

But beautiful surroundings do not guarantee an easy childhood.

Deborah grew up in a trailer park with her siblings, Eddie and LaFonda. Her father, Ed, struggled with alcoholism and could become abusive. There were nights when their mother, Betty, gathered her children and took them to the home of a relative to escape his rage.

For Betty, God was a refuge.

And she taught her children where refuge could be found.

Deborah learned early that faith wasn’t merely something discussed inside a church on Sunday morning. Faith was something a frightened family could hold onto in the darkness. It was something a mother carried with her while protecting her children. It was believing that turmoil did not get the final word.

And Deborah had music.

She, her sister and cousins sang together as the Singing Sunshines, traveling almost every weekend to churches throughout the surrounding communities.

Imagine that young girl riding along Alabama roads toward another little church, her voice waiting inside her.

Some churches were tucked among trees along winding country roads. Others sat in small communities where generations of families had worshiped beneath the same roof. Inside were wooden pews, hymnals and people who understood that Sunday singing was not a performance as much as testimony.

Then Deborah would sing.

The insecurity she sometimes carried disappeared into the music.

Her voice rose into those sanctuaries, blending with the voices of her family. Songs of heaven, deliverance, faith and hope traveled across congregations filled with people who had brought their own burdens through the church doors.

Perhaps someone was grieving.

Perhaps another family was struggling financially.

Perhaps a mother was praying for a child.

Perhaps somebody simply needed to hear that God was still there.

And there stood Deborah, a girl carrying troubles of her own, singing hope to someone else.

There is something profoundly beautiful about that.

At school, Deborah’s popularity was growing, but popularity did not erase insecurity. She noticed girls on the cheerleading squad who lived in larger homes and seemed to possess nicer things. From Deborah’s perspective, their lives appeared easier, their families less complicated, their worlds more secure.

She compared.

Most of us do.

Yet what Deborah could not fully recognize as a girl was everything God had already placed within her.

She possessed charisma.

Beauty.

A remarkable voice.

And a light that could not be measured by the size of a house.

That light remains visible today. Deborah has aged with a youthfulness that seems to match her spirit. Beautiful locks of wavy hair fall softly around her shoulders, framing a face that still carries the energy of the girl who once traveled from church to church singing with the Singing Sunshines. There is a warmthabout her, but also determination.

Life would require both.

As an adult, Deborah married Rusty and became the mother of two daughters, Madison and Alex.

For a while, life seemed to assemble itself into the perfect puzzle she might once have dreamed about along the banks of Lake Wedowee.

Rusty rose through the coaching ranks in their small town. Athletics brought recognition to the family, and with recognition came status and prestige.

Deborah built a career she adored.

She became an elementary school teacher.

Teaching was never going to make her wealthy, but it fulfilled her. There was purpose in the classroom, joy in the children, and identity in being needed.

Then life changed.

Rusty was suddenly removed from his head coaching position.

For Deborah, the world she had carefully assembled seemed to crack.

Prestige was replaced by rumors.

Recognition was replaced by questions.

The family moved forward without fully understanding why it had happened.

And Deborah eventually began looking at the experience differently.

She saw that she had made an idol of status.

Something she valued enormously had been removed, and the loss forced her to examine where she had placed her identity.

What initially looked like a valley became a place where she encountered God more deeply.

But God wasn’t finished changing her perspective.

Deborah poured herself into her children. She wanted them to succeed. She wanted them to have everything they needed to be happy and accepted. Grades mattered. Achievement mattered. Their futures mattered.

And once again she began to realize how easily even good things can move into a place that belongs to God.

At forty-seven, during a Bible study, Deborah felt God telling her that it was time to retire.

So she did.

She walked away from a profession she deeply loved.

Another identity was stripped away.

Coach’s wife.

Teacher.

Mother of children still at home.

One by one, the titles she had leaned upon began changing.

Eventually Madison and Alex grew up and left home. Alex married Clay and moved to the coast. Madison moved to the Carolinas to pursue new dreams.

The house became quieter.

Deborah and Rusty became empty nesters.

Any parent who has stood in the silence after children leave understands that strange mixture of pride and grief. You spend years preparing children to become independent, only to discover that their independence leaves an empty chair at your table.

Another valley.

Another change.

Another invitation to draw closer to God.

And then, eventually, Africa.

Maybe the little girl who sang in country churches could never have imagined it.

Maybe the teacher standing before elementary school children couldn’t have envisioned it.

Maybe the coach’s wife living amid the excitement of athletics and community recognition couldn’t have predicted it.

But God could.

Today Deborah shares the Word of God wherever she is given the opportunity—with people who eagerly listen and, occasionally, with people who might prefer she change the subject.

She is persistent that way.

Her ministry has expanded far beyond anything that insecure little girl beside Lake Wedowee could have imagined.

From Alabama church pews to African villages.

From the Singing Sunshines to missionary work.

From a mat or old bucket outside a humble Tanzanian home to conversations within communities back home.

The scenery changes.

The mission remains.

Deborah knows there will be more valleys.

Faith does not promise us a life without them.

What she has learned is that valleys can reveal things mountaintops sometimes hide.

Prosperity can convince us that we are self-sufficient. Success can whisper that we built everything ourselves. Popularity can make the applause of people sound louder than the voice of God.

Then something disappears.

A position.

A career.

A title.

A child from the bedroom down the hall.

A version of life we thought would last forever.

We look around at what remains and sometimes cry out, “God, why did You take this from me?”

Perhaps there are moments when God is asking us another question.

“Now that your hands are empty, will you reach for Me?”

That is the lesson I see woven through Deborah’s story.

She has known mountaintops of career, family, status, recognition and popularity.

She has also walked through valleys when those things changed or disappeared.

But the valleys were not the end of her story.

God was up to something.

I picture Deborah beneath that African sky, her wavy hair resting against her shoulders as darkness settles across the land. Somewhere nearby are humble homes filled with families whose lives look very different from hers. Above her are more stars than she could ever count.

And somewhere in her memory is another body of water.

Lake Wedowee.

She can almost hear the voices of the Singing Sunshines again.

She can remember the little churches.

The wooden pews.

Her mother’s faith.

The frightened nights.

The schoolgirl insecurities.

The cheering crowds.

The classroom.

The daughters.

The empty nest.

Every version of Deborah is still there.

Every mountaintop.

Every valley.

Every prayer.

And all of it has brought her here.

Perhaps that is what perspective finally teaches us.

When we are standing in the valley, we see only the mountains surrounding us. We cannot always see what lies beyond them. We cannot know which road God is preparing or what purpose might someday grow from the thing that currently feels like loss.

But God sees beyond the mountain.

He sees Alabama and Africa at the same time.

He sees the little girl and the missionary.

He sees who we were, who we are and who we are becoming.

Our responsibility is not to convince God to follow the plans we have carefully constructed for ourselves.

It is to follow Him.

And sometimes that requires changing seats.

Changing plans.

Changing priorities.

Changing our perspective.

Deborah Burroughs learned that lesson beside the waters of Lake Wedowee, in classrooms and gymnasiums, in the quiet of an empty nest, inside little Alabama churches, aboard eighteen-hour flights, and beneath the magnificent African sky.

The things she once thought defined her eventually changed.

God did not.

And every time life seemed to bring Deborah down to nothing, she discovered something waiting for her in the valley.

God was up to something.

A Walk on the Cape is HERE

When I was a young fellow I developed a passion for writing fiction. While the other kids played in the yard, in the sandbox, or a sport, I sat at the kitchen table or in the back of my parents’ station wagon with a pen and paper in hand. There was always something creative swirling around in my mind.

I began writing plays in the sixth grade and it progressed from there. My choice of career was meant to be journalism but during my first class, Intro to Communications, an Instructor told me that I should change majors. He said that I was way too “hillbilly” to report the news or to write. I was devastated but felt intimidated to go forward at the school of communications at Jacksonville State University. I switched my major to management in the school of business. I would never be satisfied after that.

Life brought “safe” opportunities in leadership roles and I built a career in marketing and management where I could still use my passion for creativity. I even competed in public speaking and won the Alabama state speaking completion. I wrote my speech for the national competition with the main topic prevention of school violence. I was filled with joy when I made the top ten and eventually finished as second runner-up.

Public speaking would eventually become part of my ministry. I had the opportunity to tour the Southeast speaking on the topic of faith and mental health. These opportunities led to over 150 published articles and a book by 2015 called Porch Swings and Prayer.

I have been blessed to continue to write books, speeches, and articles. I host a podcast called Deep South Humor and Heart, available wherever you stream.

Recently I achieved another goal. I published a fourth book based on one of my three plays. The book is called A Walk on the Cape and debuted just last week at #1 on the new releases on Amazon. I am now a best-selling author and it feels like the dreams of that little boy are coming to fruition. I no longer allow the opinions of others to determine the pursuit of what I was meant to do. What makes me happy. What fulfills me.

A Walk on the Cape is a passionate story of retirees who live at the Celestial Shores retirement village on Cape Celeste. The book details not only the drama of getting older and facing health issues but also the comedy of life that can originate through friendships and everyday life. I tell everyone the book is a “dramedy” because it contains both elements of story-telling.

The future for me looks less inhibited as I face my own health challenges. I am committed to determining my own future with the guidance of God. For me, I feel the best is yet to come.

You can pick up the book, A Walk on the Cape, or one of the three previous novels on Amazon.

Robby

A Hobo’s Life

The town of Shelbyville in Bedford County, Tennessee is a unique town. The town sits on a highland rim limestone bluff overlooking the Duck River. The river runs across the Eastern and Southern part of the town.

Today the town is known as the Walking Horse Capitol of the World. In the early 1950s it was just another stop on the Nashville-Chattanooga Railroad. Shelbyville and nearby Wartrace capitalized on the newly successful crops of Tennessee-soybeans and burley tobacco.

Wartrace, just a few miles from Shelbyville boasted of a full-fledged depot on the railroad. People from Middle Tennessee traveled to Wartrace to head East or West. Many traveled to the Carolinas on one side and St. Louis on the other. The Satterfield Mercantile was located on the Western side of the depot. Roy Satterfield owned the mercantile, and surrounding land, where he farmed soybeans. Ethel Gwen ran the store and prepared meals for hungry travelers.

In early December of 1950, Roy and Ethel Gwen’s only daughter Gwenda, was playing hopscotch with friends on a brisk Saturday. The railroad was known for hobos jumping on and off. Men and women would jump the train at some depot and ride as far as they could without being caught. A Bedford County Sherriff’s Deputy would usually peruse the depot in Wartrace. The Nashville-Chattanooga railroad system paid a nifty price for law enforcement’s help. This Saturday, the deputy was off and there was no one in his place.

Just about the time Ethel Gwen called Gwenda, her six-year-old daughter, to come in for lunch, another train was coming to a halt. Gwenda’s friends scattered but she stayed behind, peeking around the corner of the depot and watching legitimate travelers scatter into the mercantile. Gwenda turned and looked toward the railcars on the Nashville side of the train and that’s where she saw the hobos, as her mama and daddy called them.

This time was a little different. The three hobos consisted of a man, woman, and a young boy probably not much older than Gwenda herself. She watched them carefully as they darted across the dirt road and headed toward a large shade tree. They each carried a small tow sack and Gwenda figured that must be their only belongings. Both the man and the boy were wearing dirty pants, suspenders, and dirty white shirts. The woman wore a torn blue dress. Roy warned Gwenda often to stay away from the hobos and tell the deputy if she saw any. Gwenda was good at disobeying her parents.

She ran to the back of the mercantile to grab a bucket of water. Ethel Gwen raised her voice to her daughter to come on and eat. Gwenda yelled that she would be right back, she must give water to her friends. Ethel Gwen waved her off.
Gwenda ran across the dirt and gravel into the grass toward the tree. Water was sloshing out of the bucket quickly. The hobos watched her in fear. She approached with the bucket and said, “This is for you. Y’all look thirsty.” The hobos immediately began filling their hands with water and drinking it. The little boy seemed to be the thirstiest. The woman shuttered in the cold while the man tried to wrap his arms around her and keep her warm.

“I’m Gwenda, what are your names?” The woman replied in a weak voice, “I’m Aldena and my husband is Joseph. This here’s our boy, Joe Alan.” Gwenda smiled and shook Joe Alan’s dirty hand. “Where y’all headed?” They all looked at each other and Joseph replied to the young inquisitive girl with brown locks and dark eyes, “We got family in the Carolinas.” Gwenda looked behind her to make sure no one was coming, and she asked the hobos if they needed shelter from the cold. The woman explained that they were looking for some work to earn food.

Gwenda, ever the resourceful girl, invited them to stay in her daddy’s barn for the night and she would bring them food. They refused at first with Joseph saying he did not want to get shot right there in front of his wife and boy. The wife looked sickly, and Gwenda insisted she could hide them. “Stay right here and I’ll be right back.” Gwenda headed back toward the mercantile. Soon she emerged with a paper sack. Inside the sack were three sandwiches. She motioned for them to follow her and so they did.

Just over the hill along the dirt road on the north side of the depot, there was a small white house with a porch wrapped all around it. The fields surrounding the house were covered in soybeans. Normally harvested in the fall, there were still plenty remaining in early December. A couple of barns stood east of the house and Gwenda ran toward one of the barns as the three hobos trekked behind her. “This is my horse barn. Get in that empty stall with all the hay. You can stay there tonight if you like.” Aldena explained to Gwenda that she was sick, and they were traveling to see family and doctors in South Carolina. “We been on the train for days. There was nowhere to rest, and we were out of food.”

Gwenda left Joseph, Aldena, and Joe Alan in the barn while she ran back to the house to retrieve blankets and more water. She returned to the barn and told the family if they didn’t mind the cold, they could bathe in the creek running behind the property. “I’ll bring you more food for supper,” said Gwenda. She kept noticing how tired and pale Aldena looked. Gwenda thought she might need to get her mother to come take a look, but she didn’t want to get in trouble or have her daddy run them off.

Roy Satterfield was a tender-hearted man. He did all he could to help the poor by giving them temporary jobs in his soybean and tobacco fields. Sometimes he needed help moving his cattle. This evening, Roy was in a good mood and sat in his rocking chair listening to the radio box. He loved country music. Gwenda sat at his feet staring up at her handsome daddy with the pipe in his mouth. “Little girl, what are you up to? You haven’t took your eyes off me since I walked in the door.”

Gwenda launched into the subject of one of the recent sermons at the church and how much her daddy loved the church and how he loved to help people. She went on and on. Ethel Gwen interrupted and told her daughter to get to the point. “I love helping people too, Daddy. Just like you and Mama.” Roy looked up at his wife, standing by the wood heater warming her backside. She had a coy smile on her face surrounded by dark hair just like Gwenda. She had an apron tied around her waist from cooking supper. Ethel Gwen asked her daughter for once and for all what had she done?

Gwenda launched into the story of seeing the hobos and how there was no deputy, and she wanted to find out who they were since there was a little boy with them. The woman looked sick, and they were all hungry and thirsty and she did what God wanted her to do, and she put them in the barn.

Daddy jumped up and said, “You put strangers in our barn? Are you telling me they are out there now?” Gwenda pleaded with her daddy not to be mad and to see if he could help Joseph, Aldena, and Joe Alan. Ethel Gwen calmed Roy down and they agreed to go and talk to the family of hobos.

Joseph was scared to death when he saw the Satterfield’s coming. He knew it was a mistake to follow the girl. Roy was stern at first and questioned Joseph about everything while Ethel Gwen spoke to Aldena. “Roy, she’s a sick woman here and they got a boy,” said his wife.

Aldena explained that she was dying, and they were trying to get to her family in the Carolinas and see if they could get help. Roy and Ethel Gwen welcomed them to stay in the barn for the night and they brought food, water, and more blankets. Ethel Gwen tended to Aldena for a while and then the Satterfield’s went back up to the house. Gwenda was quite proud of herself.

Roy stood in the yard the next morning talking to Joseph and before they knew it, the Doosley family stayed a few weeks while Joseph helped Roy harvest the remainder of the soybeans. When it came time to go, Roy paid Joseph well, Ethel Gwen stocked them up with clean clothes and food, and they got on the train properly, headed to their destination. Gwenda was sad to see the Doosley family go, especially Joe Alan. It had taken him several days to trust Gwenda, but now they were friends.

Over the years Wartrace, Shelbyville, and Bell Buckle became a destination in the South for horse shows. By 2022, the area was the most visited place in Middle Tennessee. Mark Doosley loved horses and always wanted to show his walking horse in Shelbyville. His wife, Beth, was itching to visit the café and mercantile at Bell Buckle. Mark, Beth, and Mark’s dad, Joe Alan, loaded up and headed out on a road trip from their home in South Carolina.

Joe Alan was an active man to be nearly 80 years old. He worked hard all his life and raised his son in the church. Teaching him to give back to his community as much as he could.

One morning while Mark was showing his horse at the Duck River arena, Joe Alan took the truck and went for a drive over to Wartrace. He had never forgotten how much the Satterfield family did for his family back in 1950. Once he got to the old train depot in Wartrace, the road was lined with antique shops, café’s, and hardware stores. Joe Alan saw no sign of Satterfield Mercantile. He turned his truck around and headed back toward Shelbyville when he noticed a road just beyond Railroad Street with the name Satterfield Drive. He smiled and made the turn.

The little white house was still there. He approached the front door and a young woman holding a baby met him on the porch. “Could I help you, Sir?” Joe Alan took off his hat and asked if there was anybody living up there named Gwenda Satterfield. The young woman smiled and said, “That’s my grandmother, she lives two houses up.” Joe Alan told the young woman part of the story and that he would love to see Ms. Gwenda. He was invited in, and a call was made to the grandmother. She most certainly welcomed Joe Alan to come on up to her place.

It was quite the reunion when the two elderly folks saw each other for the first time in 72 years. They sat on Gwenda’s front porch and talked on and on about their lives. “There’s something I want to tell you,” said Joe Alan. “I never forgot what you did for us. Because of you, I went into the Peace Corps after the military, and traveled around the world. I came home and built a business and raised a good family. When I retired, my wife and I opened a homeless shelter in Greenville, just to give back to the community.” As Joe Alan told his story, tears dripped down Gwenda’s face.

Gwenda asked Joe Alan to give her a ride over to Shelbyville. She wanted to show him something. Joe Alan obliged. Once they got to the Main Street of Shelbyville, Gwenda said turn here, and then turn here, and then back here. They finally arrived at an old white building. The sign above the building read, “The Roy and Ethel Satterfield Mission.” Gwenda winked at Joe Alan and said, “I named it after Mama and Daddy.”

Both Joe Alan and Gwenda knew their lives had been changed forever the day three hobos hopped off the train on a cool December Saturday.

Scroll down for more stories from Rob Goodwin

Ruthie’s Ways Part 1

Ruthie’s Ways
Part One

From 1966 to 1999 Ruthie Ellerby worked tirelessly in the local cotton mill in Trinity, Georgia. She’d still be a “spinner” at the mill if it hadn’t been for “the mill ‘a closing,” as she’d always say to her friends and family. Ruthie never married and never had any kids of her own, but she was an aunt, great-aunt, and great great-aunt to several. She loved her family, but didn’t put up with their modern ways and worthless actions. Hardened by some of the changes in the world she didn’t approve of, the local townsfolk always said, “that’s just Ruthie’s ways.”

A good four hours from Atlanta, Trinity was well removed from the hustle and bustle of the big city. While no one would ever use the word progressive, Ruthie believed everyone was equal and enjoyed attending a local Methodist church that welcomed all. She would chastise her younger sister’s kids for not bringing their kids and grandkids to Sunday school. They just all looked at each other and said, “that’s Ruthie’s ways.”

Ruthie always found joy in growing a massive garden. She believed in growing your own as much as possible and often gave part of her harvest to those less fortunate than she. Ruthie lived in the same single-wide trailer she bought in 1972. When the mill closed, Ruthie had to find work until she turned sixty-two and could draw social security, so she spent twelve years “sittin’ with old people.” Ruthie was a great caregiver. She would often stop in at Merkie’s country store and pick up special items for Mrs. Clovis Aderholt, Mr. Gordy Simmons, or another of her “eldersly” as she pronounced them. Some of the menfolk from town played cards at Merkie’s, and while they knew never to mess with Ruthie, when she’d leave ole man Merkie would always say, “that’s just Ruthie’s ways.”

When sixty-two finally arrived, Ruthie retired and started keeping her great nieces and nephews, while their parents drove miles and miles for work. The little trailer became filled with laughter and love, like Ruthie had never known. She could calm a baby, discipline a spoiled toddler, or smack a mouthy pre-teen whenever the need arose. No one ever complained, because it was all done with love, it was Ruthie’s ways.

Retirement seemed to be going well for Ruthie until the cancer set in. All those nieces and nephews she had raised came a running to their aunt’s side. She handled it well and was strong, even though she knew the fight of her life lay ahead. She prayed and gave it to God, her trusted ole doctor, and the willpower she’d built up, because that was just Ruthie’s way.

Ruthie’s Ways Part 2

Ruthie’s Ways
Part II
A fictional three-part short story
By Rob Goodwin

Born the fifth child and first girl of seven, Ruthie was named after her grandmother, Clara Ruth Ellerby. Ruthie was the apple of her father’s eye, so her mother carried out most of her discipline. Ruthie’s four older brothers, John Owen, Edward, Clayton, and Harland, were always getting her into trouble. By the time little sisters, Rayanne and Regina were born, Ruthie was already as tough and mean as a boy, but she had a heart of gold and was like a second mother to the sisters. Mr. Ellerby didn’t want Ruthie working in the cotton mill. He knew what kind of men worked there and was afraid she would get married before she was ready. He could never imagine a man being good enough for his Ruthie.

In the mid 1960s, Ellerby (as he was referred to all over town) came down with, “the lung disease”. He had allowed his four boys and Ruthie to smoke as they were growing up. It brought a sense of calmness to their hard daily work, and the constant stress of financial worry. Pall Mall was Ruthie’s father’s favorite brand of smokes. Beaulah Ellerby, Ruthie’s mother objected to the boys and Ruthie smoking, so they hid it from her. Ellerby passed away in the spring of 1966, and by fall Ruthie had a job in the cotton mill, in order to help her mother with the bills. When speaking of her daughter’s selfless generosity, Beaulah always said, “That’s Ruthie’s ways.”

Ruthie’s brothers went on to get married and start having children, but John Owen was diagnosed with lung cancer also. The eldest Ellerby son died an early death and Beaulah grieved herself into bad health. By the eighties, Ruthie was the head of the family. Edward ran off with some hussy from the pipe shop, “a secretary or sumthin.” Clayton was a drunkard and in his third marriage. Harland, Ruthie, Regina and Rayanne stayed close and worked together caring for their ailing mother. They raised their children like a village and Ruthie did all she could do to be the matriarch of the family and keep everyone together. Beaulah died from kidney failure in 1982, likely related to blood pressure and sugar issues. Ruthie was devastated but found strength in her loved ones.

Life prevented Ruthie from finding her own personal happiness as defined by society. By the time she turned forty years old, the hardness of life made Ruthie believe she was an old maid. Serving the church, helping to raise the kids, and working tirelessly in the mill’s spinning and winding departments, prevented the loneliness that most would have felt. There were a few men who courted Ruthie from time to time, but she had no interest and no man ever had the resolve to continually pursue Ruthie.

Facing cancer at seventy years old wasn’t unexpected by the family or Ruthie. She was addicted to smoking from an early age, and often wondered how she had been spared so long after her father and John Owen’s deaths. Harland, Rayanne, and Regina’s eight kids together, would prove to be the support system Ruthie needed. Ruthie had always been their strength and godly example. Reluctantly and with great fear and anxiety, Ruthie agreed to visit the large cancer center in Atlanta. Like her mother, Ruthie was never interested in leaving Trinity, and especially not interested in a city like Atlanta. After talking with God, Ruthie felt some of the burden of anxiety subside and she didn’t feel as fearful anymore. This was definitely her turn in life to “let God fight my battles,” as she lovingly and firmly told the, “youngins,” she helped rear. Trusting God proved to be the best of Ruthie’s ways.

Ruthie’s Ways Part 3

Ruthie’s Ways
Part III
By Rob Goodwin

The black pug named Helix struggled to jump from the arms of Casey, one of Ruthie’s great-nephews, as the car carrying Ruthie Ellerby left her home in Trinity, Georgia. Her beloved pet and companion knew there was something wrong with Ruthie and replicated her emotions. Ruthie sat in the backseat behind her niece Gloria, with her other niece, Cheryl, guiding the charcoal gray Buick. With every open field the Buick passed, Ruthie whispered, “Jesus, help me get through this and get back to my home.”

The interstate was a mess. Ruthie had not been north of Trinity in a very long time, and she absolutely hated heavy traffic. Cheryl maneuvered through one jam after the other, and reached the cancer center in Atlanta after driving over four hours. Ruthie agreed to stay at the hospital for the first month so that her progress might be monitored. She felt fear and gratitude to be accepted into a special program. Her family decided to take turns, and Gloria would be staying the first three days. This reassured a tired and overwhelmed Ruthie. However, Ruthie still longed for that small mobile home surrounded by her land. She longed for Helix and all the children she helped to raise. She longed to be working in her garden.

For a lung cancer diagnosis, Ruthie seemed to be in good shape and the doctors became somewhat hopeful after the initial tests. The cancer center focused on building Ruthie’s strength, appetite, and immune system, while also targeting the cancer in her lungs. At first, Ruthie just stared off into space and then, almost by insistence from her caseworker, she began meeting the other men and women, all there to battle a horrendous disease, with very little hope for some. She listened to stories about why each person was fighting for their lives. Children, grandchildren, and spouses were all mentioned. When Ruthie took her turn to open up, her reasons were a little different. She never had a husband, a child or a grandchild. Of course she found great joy in her siblings and their children. She finally quipped, “I guess my reason is this, I just feel like…well, Jesus ain’t done with me yet.”

By day five, Ruthie began making new friends and introducing each of her family members, as they came and went. Her caregivers and medical team took notice that Ruthie had an abundance of support, which they felt was absolutely necessary in battling lung cancer. With a month behind her, Ruthie’s sister and her youngest daughter, sat in the room alongside Ruthie, as the doctor delivered the news that Ruthie was right on track with her treatment plan. The staff made appointments for Ruthie to see a physician in Albany, closer to home, and only return to Atlanta every three weeks.

The next four months, Ruthie thrived. She felt good, ate well, and received great reports from her doctors. She helped her loved ones plant a garden behind her home. Ruthie’s Pastor, Gary Johnson, suggested that Ruthie give testimony regarding her illness and her attitude about life. Ruthie had never been asked to speak in public, but instead of being nervous, her battle had actually made her confident. She stood in front of the congregation and proclaimed Jesus name. “He is present everywhere I am,” she testified. “When He’s ready for me, I’ll be ready for Him, but not until Gabriel sounds the call. Jesus ain’t done with me yet.” She followed up her testimony with a solo of “Midnight Cry”. One testimony turned into another. This church and that church offered Ruthie the chance to come and speak. Although she’d lived such a quiet life, it was also very diligent. Now Ruthie could see the rainbow in the cloud. She was ready for whatever Jesus had in store.

At her six-month checkup, Dr. Goldsmith noted, “The tumor is a lot smaller, you’re quite the fighter Ms. Ruthie.” Tears streamed down Ruthie’s face, along with Cheryl, Gloria, and other members of the family. Hugs and joyful hands raised praising Jesus, all over the room. Dr. Goldsmith turned to Cheryl and in a low voice said, “This is truly remarkable. The progress she’s achieved, and the fight within her is nothing short of amazing.” Cheryl choked back tears and replied, “That’s just Ruthie’s ways.”

To this day, Ruthie is sharing her story of faith and hope in small town congregations, all over Georgia. Helix comes along for the ride.

The End

Note from the writer:

Although Ruthie is a fictional character, her attributes were inspired by several strong women I have had the pleasure of knowing. The south is often portrayed incorrectly, and these days, so is faith. Ruthie is an example of realizing Jesus is everywhere we are, and that many Christians enjoy a special relationship with family and extended family, a bond that cannot be replicated by those who seek to disparage us. More southern short stories coming soon…

The Clocksmith

Nestled about three hours outside Seattle, the snowy town of Leavenworth, Washington is one of the most beautiful villages in the Cascade Mountains. The population in 1977 was less than 1,500. The buildings along main street were of Bavarian style, simulating a small German town. With lovely locally owned shops and restaurants, Leavenworth was a sought-out destination.

Just across the street from Mallory’s Bistro, the Kincaid Clock Company boasts the prettiest of Christmas décor. Perry Kincaid’s family business of clock making opened in 1890. Perry’s grandfather, Conrad, was raised in Kent, Washington and began his trade as a Clocksmith at a young age in Seattle.

A mountain lover, Conrad would become one of the few shop owners on main street. Conrad bore a son named Alfred, Perry’s father. The dream of passing the shop down generation to generation stopped with Perry.

Injured in an auto accident in his teenage years, Perry never married. After the death of his father and grandfather he became one of few clockmakers in the Pacific Northwest. Maintaining the shop on Main Street seemed to be Perry’s sole purpose in life. Even though he knew he would one day sell the shop and retire, he wanted to keep the family name alive as long as possible.
Christmas in Leavenworth proved to be the best time of year for the clock business.

Although Perry filled orders for custom clocks all year, he learned from his father to stock the store with as many beautiful creations as possible for the holidays.

Year after year, Perry designed and built beautiful structures equipped with advanced time-keeping apparatuses. It was his passion. As an only child of two deceased parents at the age of 35, Perry kept to himself when not working. He kept a small cottage two streets over that belonged to his maternal grandmother.

Christmas in 1977 in Leavenworth lived up to its reputation as a snowy paradise. The deep snow caused limited travel and as the days leading up to Christmas passed, Perry saw fewer shoppers roaming the beautiful streets. On Christmas Eve, Perry decided to close the shop early and enjoy a quiet evening at his home in front of the fireplace.

Just as he was locking up the front door, he noticed a woman and a young boy trekking through the snow and waving their arms. The two strangers approached Perry and requested his help. Vera, and her young son Mason, were stranded. They explained to Perry that their automobile, a 1972 blue Chevy Nova, stalled on the main road up above the small village. They had walked for 45 minutes in the snow to reach the main street where they could see lights and shops.

Perry invited Vera and Mason into the shop to get warm and have some hot chocolate. While twelve-year-old Mason wondered through the shop mesmerized by the beautiful clocks, Vera explained to Perry how they were traveling deep into the Cascades for a Christmas visit with relatives. She told Perry the two of them had a very difficult year. Her husband quit his job in Seattle and divorced Vera for another woman and moved back East.

The split had devastated their hearts and their finances.
Perry shared his family story with Vera and the two realized they had been talking for almost two hours when Mason interrupted and asked Perry if he could see the back of the shop where the clocks were made. Perry obliged and gave the young impressionable boy a tour. Mason asked Perry “Do you have to be really smart to build clocks like this.” Perry simply replied, “You just have to have a certain twinkle in your eye,” as he winked at Vera.

Vera was grateful for the hospitality and asked if Perry knew of an Inn nearby where they could spend the evening. Perry said the closest accommodations were more than three miles up the road and given the weather it would be difficult to make it by foot. Perry offered his home to Vera and Mason for the night. He would stay at the shop in order for them to feel safe and secure at his home. Vera was moved to tears, knowing God had placed Perry in their path this Christmas.

It took three days for the weather to subside and Vera’s car to be repaired. She was grateful to Perry for his concern for her young son. She promised to come back and purchase a beautiful clock for Mason as soon as possible.

Forty-seven years later the population of Leavenworth jumped to nearly 3,000 and boasted of 32 shops along the main street, which became one of the favorite destinations of would-be skiers and vacationers in nearby towns. The Kincaid Clock Company expanded to three storefronts, had the most visited website of any clock company in Washington, and shipped its products all over the world.

The shop’s new owner was a single man in his early thirties. With a large staff working tirelessly, the 2024 season was proving to be the best in the Kincaid Clock Company history. A PR firm hired to promote the illustrious cabins, skiing, dining, and shopping attractions in Leavenworth produced a magazine featuring the clock store and many other businesses. The store drew the interest of producers of a show on the Travel Network.

Amanda, an associate producer traveled to Leavenworth to interview the owners about a possible upcoming episode.
The weather was treacherous and travel to and from Seattle was difficult. Still, as one of her first assignments, Amanda was determined to complete the interview and make it home for Christmas. Almost a day late for the interview, Amanda finally made her way to the front entrance. The owner, Matthew, was just closing up shop. He had already sent all team members home and was preparing to head home himself. Amanda pleaded that he still give her a quick tour and allow her to come back tomorrow for a longer interview. Matthew agreed even though he wanted to make the 131-mile trip to Seattle to be with his friends for the holidays.

Matthew and Amanda talked for hours over hot chocolate and biscotti from a shop down the street. They told stories of their college days at the University of Washington and were surprised they had never met. They talked of loves lost, hard knocks in life, and the pursuit of dreams.

Matthew began receiving alerts on his phone about road closings. He advised Amanda that she may need to book a room at one of the hotels or vacation rentals in the area. Quickly heeding his advice, Amanda began searching. For over an hour she called and emailed hotels and vacation homeowners in the area. Due to the holidays the area was booked solid, and nothing was available on such short notice.
Amanda was visibly distressed, so Matthew had an idea. His family still owned a small home a couple of streets off Main Street, and he offered the keys to her for the night. Amanda accepted the offer graciously and followed Matthew toward what would be her shelter for the evening.

Amanda was amazed at the beauty of the little cottage. The lovely furniture and décor was exactly what she imagined for a small cottage in Leavenworth. The walls were lined with photos of beautiful clocks made by the Kincaid Clock Company. A story card was posted under each photo. Amanda soaked in the history and then pointed to photos on the wall of men and women. “Are those photos of the Kincaid family,” she asked. Matthew walked over to the photos pointing to each as he recounted his knowledge of the Kincaid family.
One final photo pictured a man, woman, and young boy. Amanda stopped at that photo. “Is that you?” she asked. Matthew explained, the young boy in the photo was his father, Mason. The couple were his grandparents, Perry and Vera Kincaid. He recounted the story of their initial meeting on a snowy Christmas Eve in 1977. Charmed by the love story, Amanda asked if she could include the story in the interview for the show. “Sure,” replied Matthew, “They fell in love and built their life together right here in this cottage.”

Amanda smiled and looked at Matthew. There was a certain twinkle in his eye

The Providence Practice

C. Edward Butler was just your average attorney from New Shoreham, Rhode Island.  He made a good living for his wife and soon to be only daughter, Edwina.  Something big happened for Edward in 1959 when he took on a case for a small maritime company.  Rhode Island Builders, a ship builder, fell prey to the bigger companies along the East Coast and found it difficult to compete.  The owners of the company didn’t want their life’s work bankrupt, or their company purchased and dismantled leaving dozens of employees jobless.  Edward saw this as an opportunity to make his mark and protect the small businessmen of his state.  It would take over three years before he would win R.I.B. vs. Wellman, a ruling that would protect small companies from being swallowed up by the mega corporations who built their ships overseas.  Not only did he score a big win for his friends at Rhode Island Builders, but he also made a name for himself as a litigator.  Sweet success followed for decades.

In 1978 a young Edwina Butler left her home in Providence to attend Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire.  Edwina knew she wanted to get into Harvard Law School after her undergraduate work, so she took the offer from Dartmouth, her father’s alma matter, along the way.  Majoring in Political Science, Edwina rose to the top of each class she enrolled in.  Dartmouth, mostly known for degrees in medicine, engineering, and the fine arts, had a relatively low enrollment in the Political Science program.  There was, however, a young man named Michael Beckwith who climbed the ranks with Edwina, always falling a grade point behind.  She found him charming and witty. He was more relaxed and somewhat giddy about life.  The duo began their Senior year as lovers.

Edwina knew her father would love Michael, as he was passionate about his beliefs.  The only drawback…he was from west Texas so Michael would just have to follow where her career led.  He did.  Both Edwina and Michael were accepted to Harvard Law School and moved into a tiny apartment paid for by C. Edward Butler.  The couple were unstoppable.  They often placed in the top of their classes each semester.  Michael, a lover of English Literature, even wrote for Law Review. 

In Edwina’s mind, the plan was always to go work for the Southern Poverty Law Center for one year and then return to Providence to work with her father at Butler-Solomon-Sprinehold.  After graduating from Harvard, Michael moved to Providence immediately and began working for C. Edward’s firm.  After two years the couple planned an elaborate wedding on the beach and spent two weeks basking in sunlight making a plan for the rest of their lives.

For Edwina, as each year passed, she became happier and happier.  Madly in love with the law, and Michael.  There were minor setbacks along with way.  The death of their four parents took a toll.  Both only children, and committed to their work, Michael and Edwina made the decision not to have a child.  They had each other.  Best friends, lovers, soul mates, partners in law.  What more could anyone ask for?

Tragedy struck the couple in 2015 when Michael was killed in an automobile crash on his way home from court.  It took hours to notify Edwina.  When she heard the news, she fell to her knees, weeping as her mother had when C. Edward passed.  Edwina would never be the same after Michael’s death.  The law would never be the same. 

As the years passed, Edwina became bitter and more steadfast in her pursuit of winning in the courtroom.  The defendants were always her enemies.  She was ruthless.  Who could blame her?  In 2021, things changed again for Edwina.  Her focus was off.  She began making mistakes.  The kind of mistakes that an attorney shouldn’t make.  She began losing more and more cases and letting her clients down.  Her struggles became known all over Providence.

While most assumed grief had caught up with Edwina, it was something else.  Something a little more permanent and without occasional relief.  Edwina had three car accidents in one month.  She got lost in her own neighborhood frequently.  At the urging of her General Practitioner, an appointment was made with a Neurologist.  An MRI showed no brain damage, but the specialist feared something else.  Ater evaluation with a Neuropsychologist, the diagnosis was made.  Edwina was devastated at the thought of the road ahead.  She contemplated ending her own life, but her Catholic upbringing held strong. She wondered how she would manage a life with Alzheimer’s.

Edwina’s most trusted colleagues at the firm and a long-time assistant encouraged her to find the best memory care facility in the country and seek what would be her best chance at the final stages of her life.  Edwina refused.  She was determined to stay in control of her own life.  She came to terms with the fact that she would never practice law again and needed to relocate to a slower paced environment.  Her long-time colleague, Erin, began assisting her in a search for retirement facilities.  Hundreds of cities and communities were rejected almost immediately.  After reviewing old photos and personal items of Michael and Edwina’s past, Erin suggested a small village in Cape Celeste, Florida.  It took some persuasion, but Edwina finally agreed to a visit.

The Celestial Shores Luxury Retirement Village at Cape Celeste, Florida was lovely.  Erin was fond of the homes, services, and location.  She urged Edwina to give it a try, and promised to help her relocate again if things didn’t work out.  The two women met with Dr. Marlena Gardner, the Director of the Wellness Center at the village.  They discussed the care that Edwina would need while maintaining as much independence as possible.  Gardner assured the women they had chosen the right locale.

A home was purchased, and a home was sold.  The brownstone back in Providence was now replaced with a pale green beach home with white trim overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.  Erin assisted Edwina with the management of her assets and became her Power of Attorney.  Edwina’s life had been beautiful up to the point she lost Michael.  She remembered looking into his eyes in a history class at Dartmouth and feeling a sensation like she had never felt before.  Now, in her mind, love was over for good, and the rest would be sorrow and loneliness.  Little did Edwina know what her journey at Celestial Shores would behold.