Echoes of Appalachia

Life in Spillcorn where I was raised wasn’t always about survival, hardship, or solemn moments. We had our share of laughter, too, often at each other’s expense, but never in a mean-spirited way. In a community as small and close-knit as ours, humor was a way to cope with the challenges we faced and to bring a little light into our lives. It was woven into the fabric of our days, especially during the times we gathered for fellowship and worship. Some of the best laughs came from the unexpected moments, those rare instances when something unplanned happened, shaking us out of our routines and reminding us not to take life too seriously.

One of those moments occurred during our home church services. These services were held at the homes of some of the elderly members of our community who had difficulty getting out to church. As the church congregation made their way to one of the elderly couples houses for the weekly service, inside, the women would fill the couches and chairs, whispering greetings and catching up on the latest news, while the men gathered outside on the porch, their voices mingling in low conversation as they waited for the preacher to begin.

One of the regulars at these home services was an old man who had seen more than his share of life’s ups and downs. He always showed up in the same faded overalls and well-worn hat, his face deeply lined with age and experience. He was a quiet man, not one to call attention to himself, and he usually sat silently on the porch, listening intently as the preacher’s words echoed through the holler.

But one evening, just as the preacher was reaching the climax of his sermon, urging the congregation to give their lives to God, something happened that none of us would ever forget. Without warning, the old man jumped to his feet, his arms flailing wildly as if he’d been struck by lightning. The church women inside gasped, their hands flying to their mouths in shock, while the preacher’s eyes widened in what he probably thought was divine intervention.

“He’s been touched by the Spirit!” one of the women cried out, her voice filled with emotion as she rushed outside, eager to witness what she believed was a miracle.

But as the congregation gathered around the old man, their hands outstretched in prayer, it soon became clear that this was no spiritual awakening. The old man’s face twisted in discomfort, his hands clawing frantically at his overalls as he yelled, “Get your damn hands off me!”

“Something flew up my pants leg!” he shouted, dancing around in a frantic attempt to rid himself of the unwelcome intruder. It wasn’t the Holy Spirit that had moved him—it was a small bat that had somehow found its way into his overalls, causing him to perform a dance that would go down in Spillcorn history.

The women gasped in shock, the preacher stood there dumbfounded, and then the laughter began—first a few chuckles, then full-on belly laughs as everyone realized what had happened. The old man, to his credit, never lost his composure once the bat was gone. He sat back down on the porch, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he listened to the rest of the sermon, which was considerably more subdued after that. He never did repent that night, but the memory of his bat-induced dance brought more joy and laughter to our community than any sermon could have.

The moral of the story? Sometimes, life throws unexpected moments our way, and it’s up to us to find the humor in them. It’s not always about being serious or perfect—it’s about learning to laugh at ourselves, even in the middle of the chaos. And in doing so, we often bring more warmth and joy to those around us than we realize. Life has its challenges, but every now and then, it hands us a reason to dance, even if it’s just to shake a bat loose.

-Tim Carmichael