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What's your story?
Everybody has an ASP story -- that moment when you see yourself as the person you've always wanted to be. Compassionate. Committed. With the power to make a difference. Maybe it's laughing with new-found friends. Or maybe it's a meaningful conversation with the family you are serving.
How has ASP changed your life?
Posted 02/18/2010 08:57 PM
by Adam
Aldersgate United Methodist Church
IA
Its not much of a story, just like to express my exitement for this upcoming trip! This will be my third year and i plan on going many years after.
Posted 02/09/2010 08:00 PM
by Brennan
Saint Mary of Berea & BAy United Methodist Church
OH
BEST TIME EVER!!!!!!!!!!!! :) IN THE NAME OF CHRIST! :)
Posted 01/24/2010 03:03 PM
by Becca
Leaf River United Medothist
IL
My story is ASP is a fun experience to go.I've gone 5 years.This year will be my 6th year.You make lots of friends including the people in your group,the family you work for and the staffers.
Posted 01/17/2010 07:05 AM
by Patrick
Faith UMC
IL
I had been participating in ASP for a few years- it wasn't so much a religious experience for me as simply a humanitarian one. That is to say, I didn't view myself as a missionary, simply as someone who, though I had little in the way of construction skills, was willing to lend a hand. A friend of mine, who attended a different church in our town, also participated, and it was an experience we shared with other friends, though none of them really understood why either of us enjoyed it so much. We didn't really care; it was something we both loved, and if other people didn't get it, it was their loss.
When she moved to Blacksburg, VA, senior year of high school, one thing that we kept in touch about was ASP. She still participated with her church group there, too. Neither of us, obviously, was anyone of consequence; we were just like any other participant. No one involved in ASP, except those from my hometown, probably even remember that I've ever been involved. The same can't be said for this friend of mine. You see, she went on to attend Virginia Tech; our freshman year in college was 2006-07.
April 16, 2007 is always going to be a day that I remember very clearly. I remember the fear, the uncertainty, the confusion of those first hours, hearing about the shootings on campus that day. I remember the growing anxiety in the pit of my stomach as I sat through one class after another, not knowing what was going on. I remember a desperate, frightened phone call from a mutual friend who had been in contact with her parents, that she was still missing, though it was sure she had been in class in the building where the shootings occurred. And most vividly, I remember my mother's strained voice as she called me the next morning. I remember the dread I felt as I picked up the phone, knowing what she was going to tell me. I remember having to call other friends and tell them, through my own innumerable tears, that our friend was dead.
Then, as I participated in ASP that summer, I was overwhelmed by the fact that not only was she remembered, but she was being honored by the entire community. You see, my friend was Austin Cloyd, the girl to whom the entire summer's work in 2007 was dedicated. As the only one in my church group who had actually known Austin (at least, known her well), the rest of the group seemed to be on tenderhooks around me whenever her name came up. One of the staffers at our center (I can't recall, at this point, where in Kentucky this was; I've been to so many counties there) had been a student at Virginia Tech as well, so many of the stories during devotionals were about those events. It was probably the most difficult of all the weeks I've participated, but ultimately the most fulfilling. As they gave us the bracelets with Austin's name, I realized that people all over the country might be looking at these bracelets and helping the less fortunate, all in Austin's memory. That thought was overwhelming, but it helped me get through that week like nothing else could have done.
The knowledge that the Appalachia Service Project has done so much in Austin's memory makes losing her a little easier. There are still times that memories of Austin make me cry (I'm crying even as I write this) but more and more, I'm able to smile when I think of her, and I thank everyone at ASP for helping that happen.
When she moved to Blacksburg, VA, senior year of high school, one thing that we kept in touch about was ASP. She still participated with her church group there, too. Neither of us, obviously, was anyone of consequence; we were just like any other participant. No one involved in ASP, except those from my hometown, probably even remember that I've ever been involved. The same can't be said for this friend of mine. You see, she went on to attend Virginia Tech; our freshman year in college was 2006-07.
April 16, 2007 is always going to be a day that I remember very clearly. I remember the fear, the uncertainty, the confusion of those first hours, hearing about the shootings on campus that day. I remember the growing anxiety in the pit of my stomach as I sat through one class after another, not knowing what was going on. I remember a desperate, frightened phone call from a mutual friend who had been in contact with her parents, that she was still missing, though it was sure she had been in class in the building where the shootings occurred. And most vividly, I remember my mother's strained voice as she called me the next morning. I remember the dread I felt as I picked up the phone, knowing what she was going to tell me. I remember having to call other friends and tell them, through my own innumerable tears, that our friend was dead.
Then, as I participated in ASP that summer, I was overwhelmed by the fact that not only was she remembered, but she was being honored by the entire community. You see, my friend was Austin Cloyd, the girl to whom the entire summer's work in 2007 was dedicated. As the only one in my church group who had actually known Austin (at least, known her well), the rest of the group seemed to be on tenderhooks around me whenever her name came up. One of the staffers at our center (I can't recall, at this point, where in Kentucky this was; I've been to so many counties there) had been a student at Virginia Tech as well, so many of the stories during devotionals were about those events. It was probably the most difficult of all the weeks I've participated, but ultimately the most fulfilling. As they gave us the bracelets with Austin's name, I realized that people all over the country might be looking at these bracelets and helping the less fortunate, all in Austin's memory. That thought was overwhelming, but it helped me get through that week like nothing else could have done.
The knowledge that the Appalachia Service Project has done so much in Austin's memory makes losing her a little easier. There are still times that memories of Austin make me cry (I'm crying even as I write this) but more and more, I'm able to smile when I think of her, and I thank everyone at ASP for helping that happen.
Posted 01/15/2010 10:34 AM
by Lauren
CA
I sat with my nose pressed against the tinted window, watching the children stopped in their play, staring at us as we bumped past them along the dirt road. The corners of my mouth rose into a smile as the dogs hurried to yelp at our crunching tires, and my eyes lit up with anticipation. Maybe they rarely saw a shiny, new car in such good condition whizzing through their small valley, commonly know as a holler. Maybe they were curious as to why various unusual cars now came through on a more regular basis than in the past. My heart skipped a beat as we turned up the driveway we were looking for, just to the right of the yellow “children at play” sign, framed by twisted vines. The tires spun, trying to gain traction on the steep driveway of loose gravel, and I fixed my gaze on the top of the hill. There, I would find a small trailer bursting with the love and joy of a heartwarming family who would change my life forever.
Our group of over thirty youth and adults from the Simi Valley United Methodist Church flew to Clay County, Kentucky during the summer of 2009. We left our color-coordinated homes, complete with full plumbing and electricity, many miles back in California, as we traveled to volunteer for the Appalachia Service Project, a non-profit organization that works throughout the Appalachian region improving homes in the area. Divided into groups of approximately six average but willing people, we planned to work on separate houses throughout the county, the ninth poorest in the United States. After fundraising for this trip for nearly a year, our spirits soared with excitement and high expectations, but none of us could have truly anticipated the great amounts of joy and respect we later gained from the impoverished families of the houses we worked to improve.
Our small group knocked on the door of the run-down, blue and white trailer from a weathered and worn porch of the same pale shade. Nothing was in great condition, but life shimmered in every detail, from the small bicycle in the yard to the kitten peering out at us from behind a crack. As a hearty voice welcomed us inside, we gingerly stepped into the dark trailer, our excitement colliding with our nerves. This house belonged to strangers, seemingly vastly different from ourselves. We knew nothing of each other. Would they accept us? Smiling, the owner of the voice plopped down in the creaky lounge chair and introduced herself as Betty. My eyes scanned the cluttered room as Betty introduced her hard-working husband and daughter, Bill and Pam, respectively. Soon, my gaze turned to a slender young boy of six years old, playing on the floor at Betty’s feet. His name was Little Bill. A spark ignited within his eyes at the sight of us, not phased for a moment by the grungy group of people standing rather awkwardly in his small living room. We barely fit into the available space, but his immediate joy caused smiles to burst onto our faces.
Every day, the same kind and smiling voice welcomed us into her home, and every day, we stood in her constrained yet inviting living room, chatting freely about our plans for the day ahead and learning more about her life. Betty’s openness in sharing her past or present encouraged our feelings of intimacy. It soon seemed as though we had known this small family for much longer than a few days. We accepted them, and they accepted us. One morning, while discussing the antics of Little Bill, sound asleep and curled in a gentle ball on the small couch, Betty expressed her wholesome pride in her family. She bluntly stated her belief that an active six-year-old ought to have a variety of toys, so the corner of the living room, hemmed in by the couch on one side and the TV on the other, became Little Bill’s toy-chest. Though this storage method cluttered the room with wrestling action figures and toy cars, Betty believed that her child deserved these possessions, and it did not matter to her if others looked down on them for the mess. To me, their living room lacked nothing to be desired. Despite the disorganization and the shabby nature of much of the furniture, the smiling, cheerful pictures that covered all three walls spoke of a proud family who loved one another dearly. To an outsider, the family may have seemed distant. True, Bill and Pam worked most hours of the day, but they were a family, surviving on much love and the little money they had.
On Thursday, when we re-installed the toilet that had been absent for almost two weeks, we began to feel more connected with our family and pleased about all the assistance we provided for them. Our hearts swelled to hear the first test flush swirl down the pipes and watch the joy on our family’s faces. Finally, our accomplishments became tangible. As we continued work, Little Bill frequently came out to play with and help us. He talked almost unceasingly and shared with us the simple joys of a pretty, six-year-old girlfriend and many cherished action figures. On the last day, we worked two hours past our scheduled stop time to finish our last project, and we hammered, drilled and sawed with a passion invigorated by our love for this family and our desire to provide for them. When we finally had to say, “Good-bye,” our hearts ached with sadness, but also with a sense of fulfillment. We felt proud of our accomplishments and pleased to have put a smile on the faces we not only loved but respected. Though not a family wealthy in money, they overflowed with an abundance of love.
As we left Clay County, I tried to form a picture of every detail, every joke, and every scene of our week, remembering all the laughter we had shared with each other and with our family. To this day, they all have a space deep in my heart. Whether Betty and her family will ever truly understand the depth of the knowledge I gained that week at their welcoming home, I will never know, but those few precious hours of my life spent in close connection with theirs taught me that love and joy are ever-present, even in the most worn-out, impoverished counties of our rich nation.
Our group of over thirty youth and adults from the Simi Valley United Methodist Church flew to Clay County, Kentucky during the summer of 2009. We left our color-coordinated homes, complete with full plumbing and electricity, many miles back in California, as we traveled to volunteer for the Appalachia Service Project, a non-profit organization that works throughout the Appalachian region improving homes in the area. Divided into groups of approximately six average but willing people, we planned to work on separate houses throughout the county, the ninth poorest in the United States. After fundraising for this trip for nearly a year, our spirits soared with excitement and high expectations, but none of us could have truly anticipated the great amounts of joy and respect we later gained from the impoverished families of the houses we worked to improve.
Our small group knocked on the door of the run-down, blue and white trailer from a weathered and worn porch of the same pale shade. Nothing was in great condition, but life shimmered in every detail, from the small bicycle in the yard to the kitten peering out at us from behind a crack. As a hearty voice welcomed us inside, we gingerly stepped into the dark trailer, our excitement colliding with our nerves. This house belonged to strangers, seemingly vastly different from ourselves. We knew nothing of each other. Would they accept us? Smiling, the owner of the voice plopped down in the creaky lounge chair and introduced herself as Betty. My eyes scanned the cluttered room as Betty introduced her hard-working husband and daughter, Bill and Pam, respectively. Soon, my gaze turned to a slender young boy of six years old, playing on the floor at Betty’s feet. His name was Little Bill. A spark ignited within his eyes at the sight of us, not phased for a moment by the grungy group of people standing rather awkwardly in his small living room. We barely fit into the available space, but his immediate joy caused smiles to burst onto our faces.
Every day, the same kind and smiling voice welcomed us into her home, and every day, we stood in her constrained yet inviting living room, chatting freely about our plans for the day ahead and learning more about her life. Betty’s openness in sharing her past or present encouraged our feelings of intimacy. It soon seemed as though we had known this small family for much longer than a few days. We accepted them, and they accepted us. One morning, while discussing the antics of Little Bill, sound asleep and curled in a gentle ball on the small couch, Betty expressed her wholesome pride in her family. She bluntly stated her belief that an active six-year-old ought to have a variety of toys, so the corner of the living room, hemmed in by the couch on one side and the TV on the other, became Little Bill’s toy-chest. Though this storage method cluttered the room with wrestling action figures and toy cars, Betty believed that her child deserved these possessions, and it did not matter to her if others looked down on them for the mess. To me, their living room lacked nothing to be desired. Despite the disorganization and the shabby nature of much of the furniture, the smiling, cheerful pictures that covered all three walls spoke of a proud family who loved one another dearly. To an outsider, the family may have seemed distant. True, Bill and Pam worked most hours of the day, but they were a family, surviving on much love and the little money they had.
On Thursday, when we re-installed the toilet that had been absent for almost two weeks, we began to feel more connected with our family and pleased about all the assistance we provided for them. Our hearts swelled to hear the first test flush swirl down the pipes and watch the joy on our family’s faces. Finally, our accomplishments became tangible. As we continued work, Little Bill frequently came out to play with and help us. He talked almost unceasingly and shared with us the simple joys of a pretty, six-year-old girlfriend and many cherished action figures. On the last day, we worked two hours past our scheduled stop time to finish our last project, and we hammered, drilled and sawed with a passion invigorated by our love for this family and our desire to provide for them. When we finally had to say, “Good-bye,” our hearts ached with sadness, but also with a sense of fulfillment. We felt proud of our accomplishments and pleased to have put a smile on the faces we not only loved but respected. Though not a family wealthy in money, they overflowed with an abundance of love.
As we left Clay County, I tried to form a picture of every detail, every joke, and every scene of our week, remembering all the laughter we had shared with each other and with our family. To this day, they all have a space deep in my heart. Whether Betty and her family will ever truly understand the depth of the knowledge I gained that week at their welcoming home, I will never know, but those few precious hours of my life spent in close connection with theirs taught me that love and joy are ever-present, even in the most worn-out, impoverished counties of our rich nation.
Posted 11/10/2009 09:55 PM
by Marjana
FUMC richardson
TX
I sat here forever trying to think how to put ASP into words.I came every year i could in high school and then worked a summer on staff after college. I have waited until my boys were old and mature enough to bring them to such a wonderful experience. This experience changes lives forever.I am hoping to bring not only my two boys but another family to ASP this year and start a family tradition.I can think of NO better way to spend our time and money than to help ASP families. Take the chance, take the leap. give up skiing for the year and visit ASP, you and your family will never regret it. It is better than any slope,beach or anything another country or region could offer a family in ways of building a better you.
Posted 11/05/2009 10:27 AM
by Casey
AL
i've been on 5 trips to ASP and every time i go the feeling i have at the end of the week is incredible. i feel better on friday afternoon, last day of asp, than i do at any other time of the year. i cant wait for next year and i will go as many times as i possibly can. for those of you who haven't gone i hope you find a church in your area that sends a team. we sent 7 teams last year and the relationships i make with these people will last a lifetime. even if you're not a firm believer in God, ASP is for you. helping people doesn't have to be a religious experience. but, who knows, maybe your experience will solidify your faith. my advice is give it a shot. its a lot of hard work, you will get dirty, you may even fall through a roof (as i did). but its worth it. its well worth it. i go with Mill Creek Parish United Methodist Church in Derwood, MD
Posted 10/01/2009 04:44 PM
by Stephen
AL
During the 70's, I was a member of a youth group in my United Methodist Church in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin. Rev. George Morris was our pastor. Glen "Tex" Evans came to our church to inspire us to serve in a work mission in Southeastern Kentucky. Mr. Evans had a wonderful sense of humor. Our youth group raised money for the work mission. We purchased an old school bus to carry us to Kentucky. When we got to Kentucky we stayed at Union College in the dorms. I worked with a couple of other teenagers and an adult supervisor on building a masonry chimney for a family to replace their metal chimney.
In the evenings we sang folk songs together. We stayed there for two weeks. This experience changed me inside. I gave a testimony in church when we returned to Wisconsin. I am retired now after working 22 years as a Deputy Sheriff in Michigan. I thank God for His grace towards me.
In the evenings we sang folk songs together. We stayed there for two weeks. This experience changed me inside. I gave a testimony in church when we returned to Wisconsin. I am retired now after working 22 years as a Deputy Sheriff in Michigan. I thank God for His grace towards me.
