They called her that, “Crazy Mary”. She wasn’t crazy, but she was old, lonely and suffering from dementia probably. Her grasp of reality varied moment by moment, and she talked incessantly. Mary lived in an old mobile home on the side of a hill. In Appalachia, everything is on the side of a hill.

What they would do there is carve out a flat spot on the hillside, and then drag a mobile home (always a used one) onto the spot. If there was enough money, they’d hook up electricity, connect to a well, and, if they could, connect to a septic system. Mary’s place smelled like the septic connection was faulty or missing. There were two doors to the home, one on the uphill side, where a couple of concrete blocks formed a step so Mary could go out and in. On the downhill side there was nothing, just a four-foot drop to the hard ground.

Some high school kids came to work for a week in Tennessee, and after finishing one job, they were sent by the Appalachia’s Service Project center to Mary’s home to build her a porch. Mary was excited and confused. Questions came thick and fast. She really wanted that porch, and, although she was broke, she wanted to pay for it.

There were two adults leading this team of eager kids, a kind and patient woman, and me. We immediately decided that the woman’s job would be to listen to and talk with Mary, otherwise we’d get nothing done. We dug postholes and set the four-by-fours in place. Not having all the right tools, one of the kids cut the posts to length with a chain saw. The stench from under the home was unbearable.

The next day, using the used lumber they gave us to work with, we cobbled together a sizable deck, and a stairway that to this day haunts me for my absurd design. A couple of neighbors stopped by to lend a hand, because that’s what they do down there. The deck we built was crude, but strong and safe and plumb. Mary loved it.

As we were finishing up, Mary came out on the porch, smiling and just loving it. But she wanted to know who she should pay for her porch. She approached me, with her hand out in front raised a little. I reached out my hand and our hands met. She was pleading to know who to pay. I looked directly into her eyes and said, “No Mary, it’s a gift; it’s for you.” For just a moment, Mary was there, deep inside. In that brief bit of time, she understood, her blue eyes alive with comprehension. Then she was gone again.

I should have told her Jesus built that porch, because He surely did. Why else would four kids and two adults show up on this backroad in Tennessee, to the home of a nearly forgotten woman, to work for a couple of days to make Mary’s life a little safer? There’s always more that could be done; no week’s worth of work could possibly fix everything in Mary’s life. But we fixed one thing; made one thing a little better. It had to be enough.