Mama T and I met 10 years ago at an after-school Gang Risk Intervention Program. I was just 12. When the state cut funding, “Mama T,” aka Teresa Goines, saw us kids drift back to our old habits—staying out late, getting into trouble.

So she spent her savings to start Old Skool Café, a youth-led supper club where we learn to cook high-end food, get hands-on experience in the restaurant industry, and come to respect ourselves and others.

“I am so proud,” she tells us before every event. “I can’t wait for our guests to see how amazing you are.”

We call her Mama T because she does what a mother is supposed to do: She goes out of her way for us. She listens to us and has our back no matter what. She’s not like family. She is family.

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The toilet wouldn’t flush.

I looked in the tank to see what was wrong. There was a brick inside!

“Honey,” I yelled to my wife, “how did a brick get into our toilet tank?”

“I put it there.”

“Why?”

“To save water. I read in the newspaper that a brick displaces enough water to save a gallon a day. What’s the matter? Did I put it in wrong?”

Muttering about cockamamy ideas, I reached in, grabbed the brick and deposited the dripping thing in the wastebasket. I’d had it with all this ecology stuff. “Don’t use plastic bags. Save this. Save that.”

Last Sunday in our church parlor, I burned my hand on a paper coffee cup because the United Methodist women had done away with Styrofoam cups, which aren’t biodegradable.

Frankly I was ready to biodegrade all those who preached about everything from pesticides and garbage disposal to recycling and the ozone layer.

After all, what can one person do? Save a few watts here, a couple of gallons there, a few plastic cups in the garbage dump? For me it was getting ridiculous. Then I met David Buckley.

David is a lawyer in Vermont, and he’s also a businessman, a most unusual one. He’s a power-plant builder, and that’s what I decided to investigate. For a long time he’d had the idea for a hydroelectric development at a dam site and a small waterfall to generate electricity outside his hometown of Bellows Falls.

So it was that I found myself tooling through the green hills of southern Vermont, slipping onto Route 103, passing Vrest Orton’s country store, turning at the sign that said Brockway Mills and stopping on a bridge over the Williams River.

I was met by David Buckley, a friendly, soft-spoken fellow with eyes as clear as the water underneath us.

There behind him was the Brockway Mills dam and, below it, the hydroelectric plant hidden in a concrete structure.

When Buckley told me it generated only enough power to supply 400 homes, I was surprised. But after hearing his story, I gained a new appreciation of what some people will do on behalf of our environment.

“My dad used to take me to this spot as a boy,” David said, looking up at the maple-shaded river. “It was my favorite swimming hole. All the years I was away—in the army, then at Notre Dame and later in law school—I used to think about this spot.

“I always knew I’d come back to Bellows Falls to practice law, and when I did, I wanted my wife and two children to enjoy the same things I had relished as a youngster—fresh clean air, sparkling clear streams and woodlands to hike.

“Then in 1979 when President Carter appealed for alternate energy sources during the oil crisis, and we all waited in line at gas stations, I felt I should answer the call.

“I’d always been fascinated by dams. Every spring we kids used to go over to the big Bellows Falls’ dam on the Connecticut River to watch the ice breaking up. When the huge frozen expanses split and fractured, they produced a thundering roar that echoed off the face of Fall Mountain, frowning over our village.

“Even then I was intrigued by the big power plant, which has been there since 1928, and by the way its water-driven turbines spun massive generators to supply New England with electricity. Such dams had been part of our heritage; our village had depended on waterwheels to grind grain and later run paper mills.

“And I loved the terms used in dam construction, terms that stemmed from early farm language. The sluice sending the water to the mill wheel was a pen-stock, and the movable gate allowing water to enter the sluice was a wicket. If floating debris was caught in the gate, the miller complained of a sticky wicket.

“So I decided to develop a hydroelectric plant using a run-of-the-river diversion dam. It was clear that every kilowatt generated from the river would mean less dependence on petroleum and coal. It would cut down on air pollution and send less carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, reducing the greenhouse effect.”

But to make it work, the project would have to be a profit-making venture. With a friend, Sandy Hadden, and other investors, David formed the Williams River Electric Corporation, and purchased a site on the river to build their plant.

They didn’t know the tremendous obstacles that lay in wait. Endless snarls of government red tape, a souring financial prospect, crippling construction costs.

It began in 1981 when they applied to the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission for a permit. Their first roadblock was heartbreaking.

To house the new turbine and generator, Buckley had planned a picturesque structure patterned after the original water mill that operated here almost 200 years ago. On the same site, it would least affect the natural surroundings.

No, said the authorities. The new plant had to be hidden deep in the gorge under a concrete housing. This meant blasting away the natural rock.

“I wondered if it was worth going on,” said David. “But my partner argued we couldn’t let that stop us. ‘It’s crazy not to use this power,’ Sandy said. ‘It’s freely available and does no harm to the environment.’”

So the two men struggled on, running the gauntlet of over two dozen federal, state and local agencies, from the historic preservation division to the Fish and Wildlife Agency, explaining well-worn blueprints and telling the same story over and over again.

This is when they began referring half-humorously to their little company by its initials, WREC.

Finally, after 14 months and spending more than $22,000 in engineering studies and projections, they got the permit.

“What sustained you all that time?” I asked, thinking most people would have thrown in the towel long ago.

“My mother’s prayers,” said David, “and the hope that what we did might encourage somebody else to use our natural resources in an economically intelligent way.”

But in early 1983, after construction had started, oil began flowing from the Middle East again. With the heat off the energy crisis, electricity rates for small producers dropped.

“It was a major blow to expected earnings,” said David. “Interest on our debt was climbing and we had investors to think about. Yet we couldn’t let our dream die. I thought of those early millwrights who built the original water mill here, using oxen and primitive hoists. That took determination. I figured our mill would require the same.”

As construction started on the new concrete dam across the Williams River, the engineers made a surprising find. Excavations showed the new dam followed the same keyway line of the dam that had stood here two centuries ago.

“Seemed a sign from heaven we were on the fight track,” said David.

However, construction costs soared far above original estimates. When a company from Beijing, China, offered the best price on a turbine and generator, David ordered it. What he got was a Chinese puzzle.

“The generator and turbine were not assembled as promised,” said David. “Special tools had to be ordered from mainland China. Though Chinese technicians came over to install it, they couldn’t stay long enough to finish the job.

“On top of that, the translated instructions that came with the equipment were almost incomprehensible.”

David gave a wry laugh. “To make matters worse, the electronic controls had to be replaced with American-made equipment. There went most of our savings. However, by now Sandy and I felt our resolve was stronger than the calamities that challenged it.”

Finally, in January 1987, the Williams River Electric Corporation was on-line.

David Buckley ushered me down concrete steps into the cool powerhouse. I gazed up at the green generator towering over us. Over at the control cabinets, an engineer began the start-up countdown.

A green light flashed, a master switch thunked, the wicket gate opened and Williams River water roared down the penstock to spin the stainless steel turbine blades. The generator thrummed, needles flickered on gauges and a steady hum filled the powerhouse.

I stepped outside, climbed the steps and stood reflecting on the bank of the Williams in the bright afternoon sunlight.

Because of David Buckley, Sandy Hadden and others who shared their dream, the Williams River Electric Corporation was feeding 850 kilowatts of cleanly produced electricity into the Vermont power grid.

True, it was only enough to run refrigerators, washing machines, lights and toasters in some 400 homes. And though it was making a small profit, it wasn’t going to make anyone rich.

Yet something was happening here, something far more satisfying than making money. David Buckley and Sandy Hadden were saving 4,000 barrels of oil each year—not much compared to the millions our nation consumed annually, yet it was something.

And it showed me that if each one of us did what we could, we might—just might—help heal our earth, so that it will once again become what it was when “God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.”

After arriving back home and greeting my wife, I said, “Honey, about that brick in the toilet tank…”

“No worry,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “I used it in the garden.”

“Well,” I said sheepishly, slipping my arm around her waist, “let’s put a water-filled plastic bleach bottle in there instead. I read in the paper that it will save a gallon a flush.”

The call had come in early December 1958 from the regional director of home missions for the Presbyterian Church. He had asked me if I would preach for two weekends to a group of people in the coal-mining area near Castlewood, Viriginia. A student preacher on my Christmas holiday, I leapt at the chance.

That first Sunday, as I turned off the main highway onto a winding gravel road, I felt as though I had driven into a time warp. Clapboard and tar-paper shacks slumped against the hillside. Smoke eased up over each building in columns like gravestones and soft oil lamps shone in the windows. But there was not a sound in the early morning gloom, not even dogs barking to announce a stranger was passing. Just black, cold silence.

The church was a simple cement-block building. It had a flat tar-paper roof with a stovepipe for a steeple. The surrounding shacks were unpainted, the ground was barren, everything was covered with soot, and the smell of coal hung in the air.

As the congregation filed in I noticed their clothing was worn but neat. Their faces were pale and their eyes sunken. Inside, we all gave thanks to God. But there was no indication that this was the Christmas season. No trees, no lights, no wreaths, no red bows.

After the service a woman in a denim jacket introduced herself and her three children, John, Luke and Sarah. Her name was Mrs. Spense, and she invited me to lunch. A solemn, thoughtful woman, probably in her 30s although she looked much older, she hurried home to prepare the meal while the three youngsters and I ambled along behind her on the icy path.

We entered a two-room shack by a front door that was so flimsy I could see through it. The main room was illuminated by three kerosene lamps and a potbellied stove glowing like a jack-o’-lantern. Mr. Spense sat in a wooden rocker next to the stove, chewing a pipe with a chipped bowl and broken stem. “Welcome, Preacher,” he said. I glanced around the room. The thin, cracked walls were covered with newspaper and torn paper bags to keep out the wind. A tattered quilt hung on a wire to hide the two beds and the cooking area. There was running water, but the outhouse in back was the only bathroom.

The children stood quiet at first. My gaze fell on an old bluetick hound stretched out so close to the stove that I thought I could smell his fur being singed. Snuggled up to his stomach was a raccoon. “Them’s Blue and Bandit,” John explained. “And them’s ours.”

We sat for a while, not saying much. Lean and lanky John was intent on whittling the bark off a stick with a broken barlow knife, neatly throwing the scraps into the stove fire. Luke took out a river rock and began polishing it intently with a piece of wool. Like a master craftsman, he held it up to the light and blew the dust off, then resumed polishing. Sarah sat by watching with wide eyes.

Lunch was soon ready. My pie-pan plate had been heaped with potatoes and beans provided by two neighbor ladies. The meat was something Mr. Spense had caught earlier in the week (I didn’t ask what). Mrs. Spense said, “Preacher, would you pray for us?” We held hands over a table made of rough planks covered with oilcloth.

I didn’t linger after lunch. Excusing myself, I thanked the Spenses for their hospitality. As I stood at the door, putting on my overcoat and gloves, the children eyed me curiously. John reached out and patted the cuffed fur lining of my gloves. I asked Luke about the man’s felt hat he wore. He had picked it up along the road. “He don’t never take it off,” Sarah said. “Even when he sleeps.”

I promised to be back the next week, the Sunday before Christmas. Then I asked the children, “What would you like for Christmas?”

“Mr. Preacher,” John said, “Christmas don’t never come here.”

Mrs. Spense put her hand on his shoulder. “Now, John,” she said, “there’s more important things.”

I stepped off the porch, fighting tears. As I drove down the mountain I was determined that somehow I would bring Christmas to the Spense family.

All week I kept wondering what I could do for them. They were proud people; I couldn’t give them a handout. Although the children had no toys, it was clear they entertained themselves easily. They were polite with one another and treated their parents with respect. Their mother’s words rang with new meaning: “There’s more important things.”

The next Sunday, following the morning worship service, I stopped by to drop off some packages for the Spenses. I explained that in my family when people do something kind for us, we have the blessing of sharing some of our resources. It’s the giving that’s important.

The first present I gave them was a two-foot Christmas tree that had sat on the counter of the corner drugstore back home. The store owner heard me talking with some friends about the plight of people in that coal-dusted place. “Flannagan,” he shouted, “how about moving that tree out for me? Maybe someone could use it.” Decorated with tinsel and gold ornaments, it sparkled in the Spenses home.

Next, Mr. Spense unwrapped his pipe. One of my professors, after asking about my weekend, had picked a beautiful pipe from his collection and handed it to me, saying, “Bill, I need to make room for another pipe. Could you pitch this one for me?”

“It’s already broke in,” Mr. Spense noted as he turned it over in his hands.

I witnessed the first smile I had ever seen on Mrs. Spense’s face when she opened a box that held a beautiful wool sweater. My mother had insisted I take it, saying, “Mrs. Spense needs this more than I do.”

When John opened his present and found my old Boy Scout pocketknife, his comment was, “Wow!”

Luke paced like old Blue until he could open his gift—the biggest box of all. He tore through the paper and let out a shout when he found one of my dad’s gray felt hats. “Perfect fit,” he announced, pulling it down over his ears.

Then came Sarah, who had waited patiently for her turn. After opening the wrappings, she exclaimed, “Mama, it’s a real baby doll! My first baby doll!”

I had a huge box of food that had been sent by the grocer back home. Mrs. Spense immediately divided up the groceries for the neighbors who had helped supply my feast. Plus, she put aside a few items for some needy families down the hill.

I had not forgotten Blue or Bandit. Blue took his ham bone and worked on it by the stove. As Bandit began to clean his treats, I asked the Spense family if I could pray for them. But before I did, the children spoke up. “Mr. Preacher,” said John, “we’uns want to give you something.” He proudly gave me the latest stick he had stripped and sharpened. Luke handed me his precious polished river rock. And when sweet Sarah gave me her biggest hug, I wondered, after all, who had brought Christmas to whom?

Let me introduce you to someone you help a lot. Col. Ken Sampson has been a chaplain in the U.S. Army for 27 years. He has one of the hardest jobs of any pastor I can imagine. His flock is constantly changing, they’re under incredible stress, they’re young and they’re facing fears that would rattle anyone. When my friend Chaplain Sampson gives soldiers something to read, he knows it can’t sugarcoat the bad things people go through.

Early in his career he came across a booklet from Guideposts called “Thought Conditioners.” “It was great,” he says, “full of Bible verses and practical help.” He gave it to a guy in Special Forces and saw that it hit the mark. Even the size was just right, easy to carry around in a pocket.

Since then Chaplain Sampson has handed out hundreds of our booklets, not to mention countless copies of Guideposts magazine. “The stories have the real-life stuff people struggle with,” he says. “And they offer a wide breadth of spiritual experience and perspective.”

This is especially important because soldiers come from a variety of faith backgrounds.

Another thing he recommends is Daily Guideposts. “I suggest that couples read the devotionals when they’re separated during deployment. It gives them a way of staying in touch spiritually. My wife and I used the book when I was deployed in Afghanistan and it sure helped us.”

Booklets, magazines, Daily Guideposts, including a special edition with a camouflage cover—all are available free of charge to our military chaplains. We can be generous thanks to your donations.

Last year you helped us give our men and women in uniform 50,000 copies of Daily Guideposts, 700,000 magazines and 300,000 booklets. It’s our way of making a hard job a little easier. Chaplain Sampson and I are both very grateful.