Away from the difficult relationships in town, I visited in the wooded mountain passes. As poor as they were, they always insisted I stay for a home cooked "lip-smacking" Virginia chicken dinner. As we sat and talked, cackling noises erupted from the hen house outside as a chicken was making the supreme sacrifice in my honor. The laid-out dinner table heaving with steaming vegetables made me welcome indeed.
After our Virginia chicken dinner, someone started strumming a guitar and someone else a violin. Fits of hearty laughter punctuated our singing, "The old grey mare she ain't what she used to be." The echo hauntingly sped back from the pine trees across the valley. Later, by the light of a flickering oil lamp, I opened the Bible and read a well-known story. The next day, we played Gospel hymns on our squeaky pump organ at the mine, to hundreds of brawny workers during their lunch break. The heart-felt testimonies of Christians who were also their work-mates moved many to tears.