We're Porter Sir continued . . . Calamity Jane

 CALAMITY JANE

The Chilton Baptist Builders were tired and sleepy that first night at Granger, Wyoming. Church members from Bridger Valley and Granger provided some travel trailers and a mobile home used for Sunday school rooms for us to sleep. I slept on the floor of the children’s classroom. It had carpet.

Pastor Ray told the crew that seven miles up the road on the Interstate we'd find Little America, a large souvenir shop where there were bathrooms and showers for truckers. That was a good hike to use the restroom. We would have used bushes and trees, but there were none. Thank goodness the church did provide us with a van. It was Saturday night, but we could wait until Sunday morning to shower at Little America and dress for morning worship at Bridger Valley.

The next morning we tried to decide what to do first. The host church was to have the log cabin ready for us to remodel. It was on the ground. The grounds had large holes for water and sewage lines. In Wyoming the frost line is eight feet, whereas in Alabama it is four to eight inches. It was a mess, and we needed some power and needed to find who was in charge of the utilities.

As we talked, we heard a racket—that’s noise in Alabama—coming toward us, and we heard the banging of car doors. Looking around the corner was an old Toyota pickup. A lady was hauling barrels of water to water small trees in the planned community of Granger. The church was in this small area of development near a river. Other than a honky-tonk, the log cabin was all there was in the development on the river.

We asked her who the man in charge of the power was. She said she was. She said she would get it turned on. We asked her who we needed to see about the water. She said she was in charge of the water. Yes, you guessed it. She was in charge of the sewage, too. She chastised us when we asked for the man in charge. She was very much in charge.

She wore blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy—maybe that should be cowgirl—boots. I want to be politically correct. Her demeanor and her feeble and obedient husband caused us to give her the nickname Calamity Jane.

She constantly flew in and around the church in that beat-up old pickup. I said flying, because the doors would not stay closed and it looked like a bird flapping its wings when she skidded up to the log cabin.

When we tried to unload the water for her, she reminded us that she was not a Southern belle but an independent Wild West woman, to which we said, “Yes, ma'am!” She was good to keep us stocked with snacks and drinks. We were glad she did not tote pistols.

For three days SO, an old carpenter, and I worked under the log cabin jacking it up. He had been a slave to alcohol but had been gloriously saved and nicknamed Rabbit. Underneath the cabin were skunk dens. Rabbit and I did not change clothes, because we had skunk hair and skunk droppings all over us. We worked and ate alone. We did shower and put on clean underwear each day.

On Wednesday of our week there, Calamity Jane slid in and demanded that all the workers give her their dirty clothes. Rabbit and I were under the church running electrical and plumbing lines.

Rabbit said, “Be quiet and be still.”

Our guys tried to tell Calamity that it was okay; she did not have to launder our clothes, but that was like spitting in the wind or Pecos Bill trying to rope a twister. She demanded that we bring our dirty clothes to her. All of those wimps disappeared and sheepishly returned with their dirty clothes. Calamity took them and then shouted, “Where’s your underwear?”

Rabbit and I were quiet as church skunks. Wayne, our brave spokesman and electrician, tried to convince her that she did not need our dirty undies. This time it was reminiscent of the standoff at the shootout at the OK corral. Calamity did not have pistols, but those milksops disappeared and reappeared with their dirty BVDs. At least they were man enough not to squeal on the two dirty skunks under the church.

Calamity just wanted to minister. She was not a Lydia, but she did love the Lord and His workers. She returned every man’s clothes clean and folded.

We were able to winterize the little log cabin. Before our arrival, there had been a three-inch gap between the window and the logs. The parishioners had been worshipping in weather that was below freezing. We put in a new ceiling, new lighting, and electrical plugs. It is good to do mission work. It exposes us to people who are different.

The people of Granger and Bridger Valley were wonderful, and I often think of our time there. I can say that for us “kountry boyz” from Chilton County, porters and Calamity Janes can be a culture shock. They remind us that people need generous tips and lots of love, understanding, and encouragement. We did have the opportunity to witness, help change lives, and be changed, as well as do some remodeling. Mission work is exciting and eventful.

And on the sabbath we went out of the city by a river side, where prayer was wont to be made; and we sat down, and spake unto the women which resorted thither. And a certain woman named Lydia, a seller of purple, of the city of Thyatira, which worshipped God, heard us: whose heart the Lord opened, that she attended unto the things which were spoken of Paul. And when she was baptized, and her household, she besought us, saying, if ye have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come into my house, and abide there. And she constrained us. (Acts 16:13–15, KJV)

 

Who is the Calamity Jane in your life? 

What is the most unusual ministry that you have heard, witnessed, or performed?

How do you respond when things do not go as planned?

Prayer: God, you never change, because You are perfect. Help me change, because I am imperfect. Thank You for life-changing events. Thank You for Calamity Janes, Bertis Rays, “Rabbits,” and porters. Thank You for the changing power of Your Resurrection.