Raised by Soulful Dumplings and Hymns

I wasn’t raised around just any Appalachian women.

Mine had something more.

Something not every mountain woman carries - though many try.

I was raised by Old Regular Baptist Appalachian women.

There’s a certain kind of soul stitched into them -

Grit, wrapped in gentleness.

You wouldn’t see it outright.

Not in their soft-spoken words,

Or in the long hair always twisted neat into a bun.

Not in their simple dresses - modest, proper, and plain.

But their strength?

Lord, it could move mountains without ever raising a voice.

I remember the hymns they sang while working in the kitchen -

"Wayfaring Stranger" floating through steam rising from a pot of dumplings.

Those songs?

They gave the dumplings soul.

They gave everything soul.

Because when an Old Regular Baptist woman sings over a pot,

You don’t just get fed.

You get nourished.

Body. Soul. Spirit.

And that nourishment?

It wasn’t just for family.

No, ma’am.

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Sunday mornings, the men would head off to church,

While the women stayed behind -

Hands busy, hearts steady,

Preparing a feast fit for kings and kin alike.

While the men sat in pews and spoke of God,

The women sang to Him from the stove.

This was their way.

And when church let out,

The homes would fill to the brim -

With people, with laughter, with fellowship.

Children running wild in the yard.

Women gathered, trading stories and smiles.

Men piling their plates high with soul-filled dumplings.

This...

This was their way.

And somehow, it still lives in me.

When I hear one of those Old Regular hymns,

My soul feels the warm hug of Nanny,

Or the sweet smile of Wilma.

I feel at peace.

I was raised by hymns and dumplings,

By strength that never had to shout.

And I am proud -

So proud -

To have been shaped by their song,

And seasoned by their soulful hands.