In the heart of Kentucky, nestled among low, rolling hills and ancient oaks, you’ll find the small town of Dawson Springs, all 2,452 of them. It’s a place where the past lingers in weathered buildings, boarded-up shops, and remembrances of former glory. The town proudly carries the motto "A Very Special Place," and for those who have walked its streets or felt the warmth of its community, the words ring true.

Dawson Springs began life in the late 19th century the way many small towns in the heartland have, born as a humble railroad stop, but this one had something special, indeed. The “springs” of Dawson Springs were the healing mineral waters that became a beacon for travelers and celebrities alike. The springs put the town on the map, as it were, as travelers flocked there with notions that a dip in the mineral waters would change lives. The town once boasted 23 hotels, with some that rivaled even the most upscale establishments of the big city. 

The land here is rich—not just in soil, but in spirit. The people here have always been tied to the earth, understanding its moods and seasons, drawing both sustenance and solace from it.

Life, real life, in Dawson Springs has never been about the grandeur or the spectacle. It's about the simple things: neighbors helping neighbors, children playing under the watchful eyes of generations past, and the shared understanding that everyone here is part of something larger than themselves. The town's charm is found in quiet moments—greetings exchanged on Main Street, the laughter spilling out from the local diner, the sense of belonging that wraps around you like a well-worn coat.

But even the most tranquil places must come to heel when the forces of nature rear up. In December of 2021, a cat4  tornado tore through Dawson Springs, leaving a trail of destruction that cut to through the heart of the community. Homes were flattened, lives were upended, and the familiar landscape was scarred beyond recognition. The people, stunned and grieving, gathered amidst the rubble, their faces etched with lines of sorrow and disbelief and the familiar 1,000-yard stares of those that have looked into the abyss. 

And as days turned to weeks turned to months, something remarkable happened. The spirit that had always defined Dawson Springs began to shine anew. Friends leaned on friends as helping hands lifted debris and shifted through the memories, which was sometimes all that was left of a life. And from beyond Dawson Springs, the empathy and generosity of the American heart responded with aid from all corners. 

But just as the town was finding its footing, rebuilding piece by piece, fate dealt another cruel hand. In late May of this year, a second tornado struck, as if the heavens themselves sought to test the mettle of this stalwart community. The wounds, still fresh from before, were torn open again. Trees that had begun to regrow were stripped bare, and the nascent structures symbolizing hope were reduced to splinters.

Bent, but not broken, the town would not easily yield. Infused with the gutty nature of their pioneer ancestors, the people of Dawson Springs came together yet again. They understand that the measure of a town is not taken in times of ease, but in moments of hardship. Adversity doesn't break them; it binds them tighter.

In the aftermath of the storms, stories arose, weaving a rich tapestry of inspiration and resolve. Those that had lost everything, sharing what little they had without hesitation. Volunteers worked tirelessly, clearing roads and restoring power, faces soaked in sweat and determination. The local church became a haven, its doors open wide to all who sought comfort or simply a place to rest.

Today, as the scars of the tornadoes slowly heal, Dawson Springs stands as a testament to hope. New homes now stand where old ones disappeared, each nail hammered with hope, each wall raised with the promise of a future unbroken by past calamities. The laughter of children can once again be heard in the parks, and the aroma of home-cooked meals wafts through the air. 

The town continues to honor its motto, "A Very Special Place," not out of vanity, but because it has been earned through trials that would have shattered lesser communities. The people here know that being special isn't about being untouched by hardship; it's about how you respond when faced with it. It's about the courage to rebuild, the compassion to support one another, and the conviction that tomorrow holds the promise of better days.

Today Dawson Springs is still a small spot on the map, mostly a place to pass through rather than a place to go to. But if you stop and pause here, you’ll see it—a place where the human spirit thrives… against all odds. You’ll find stories etched into every cornerstone and new memories being woven into the fabric of daily life. You’ll find a town that’s bent but not broken.

In the end, Dawson Springs is more than just a town—it's a reflection of the enduring strength found when people come together, a reminder that even in the face of nature's fury, the bonds of community and the fierceness of the human heart remain the most formidable forces of all.

In the quiet, sprawling fields of Arkansas, where the sun casts long shadows over fertile soil and the air carries whispers of old hymns, Reverend Dale McDonald tends to the souls of his community much like a farmer nurtures his crops. The three humble churches he pastors—Allen Temple, Carter Chapel, and Mount Gillian, all of the African Methodist Episcopal denomination—are scattered across Phillips County, each a sanctuary of hope amidst the rolling landscapes and weathered towns. 

“The African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church is a Christian denomination that proudly asserts that it is unashamedly Christian and unapologetically Black,” according to Yale Divinity School. “It was founded in 1787 when a group of Black worshipers, led by Richard Allen and Absalom Jones, exited St. George’s Methodist Episcopal Church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as an act of protest against segregation in the house of God.”

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings; they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

It was a Saturday night and I found myself hankering for some good ol’ gospel preaching, hymn singing and roof rasing. The closest A.M.E. church my personal AI assistant could find me was Allen Temple, West Helena, AR. It would be a mere four-hour-plus drive for me to make it in time for Sunday morning service. I fretted... it would mean pushing Josie about as hard as I dared to get us there on time. Moreover, I’d have to venture onto the Interstate—that vile collection of soulless ribbon concrete and turnpikes. But time is a cruel taskmaster; we had no other choice.

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings;
they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

Although we rolled out on Interstate 40 with enough time to make it before service started, we were unsuccessful in our attempt. A stop for gas ate up precious time. Then there was Josie’s top speed; I dared not push her faster than 60mph for fear she would overheat. Usually I rode the groove between 55 and 60, which meant cars and semis of all sorts whipped past us on the 75mph speed limit interstate. 

When we finally rolled up on Allen Temple, I could tell we were too late simply by the small smattering of cars in the parking lot. Undeterred, I climbed out of Josie and approached the front door. I leaned in and listened hard for any sounds of preaching or singing. Nothing. So I just opened the door and walked right in. At the front of the church was the pastor, I assumed, who was wearing robes, and three elderly black women and a few kids running around. 

When I stepped in the sanctuary, all conversation immediately stopped and eyes were riveted on me; even the kids paused to gwak. I could hear their thoughts: “Child, whatcha doing here? Are you lost?” I just kept smiling, there was a hitch in my step, but I kept walking forward.

I introduced myself and asked for the pastor. He rose, a big bull of a man with a welcoming face and easy spirit. He reached out to shake my hand, and as he did, my hand disappeared into his like a first frost melting into a fallow field. Such was my introduction to Rev. McDonald. I explained to him and the ladies about the Tour. I didn’t even finish speaking when they all pointed to a woman sitting in the second pew, entertaining the kids. “That’s who you want, right there, uh-hum. She’s in everything, gives everything, and does everything.” She was a retired school teacher, they said. 

The woman never lifted her eyes for a second. I stepped closer to her and asked, “Do you mind if we talk for a while?” She vigorously shook her head. “No. No way I’m talking, not gonna do it, no way, no how.” I sunk. She sounded like the perfect person to write about. But she would have none of it. 

I turned on my heel back to the other women and the preacher. After what seemed like a quick huddle in whispered tones, they reported back. “Pastor’s the one you want,” they said in unison,  “Um-hum, he’s the one.” 

The pastor seemed a bit flummoxed. I asked him if he’d be willing to spend some time with me, and he agreed. 

Born into a world where scarcity was an uninvited but constant guest, Rev. McDonald was one of six children in a household that knew the weight of hard times. "I come from six brothers and sisters," he recalls. "It was not easy, you know. Situations come up all the time—bills and things—but it was never a time where I never had nothing to eat or anything like that." The walls of their home might have been thin, and the rooms crowded, but they were rich in the currency of love and resilience.

Born into a world where scarcity was an uninvited
but constant guest, Rev. McDonald was one of six
children in a household that knew the weight of hard times.

At the heart of this resilience stood his grandmother, the matriarch—a sturdy oak in a field of saplings. It was her steadfast faith and quiet strength that kept the family from scattering like leaves in the wind. She ensured that young Dale was in church every Sunday, instilling in him the seeds of faith that would one day grow into his calling.

At the tender age of twelve, a stirring began in his soul—a whisper in the quiet moments between dusk and dawn. "I had a calling probably when I was about 12 years old," he said. Inspired, no doubt, he said, by his mother, who was also a pastor. But the weight of this divine invitation was something he wasn't ready to bear. "I did not pursue the ministry until I was like 28. It was something on me that I couldn't hide from, and oh, I tried. You know, like boys would be boys."

And indeed, he immersed himself in the exuberance of youth. "I was a talkative school kid, I was a class clown, I was an athlete," he says with a hint of nostalgia. "I smoked marijuana, I drank, I... hey, I had, you know, dealt with girls. I did the regular guy stuff." He sought to drown out the calling with laughter and rebellion, hoping it would fade like a forgotten dream. Yet, despite his attempts to outrun his destiny, there was one place he could never avoid. "Church was one thing I just could not miss. You were in the pew on Sunday," he says, grandma saw to that. "Yes, I was. I was always there."

Years rolled by like tumbleweeds across a dusty road. At twenty-eight, the calling he had long tried to evade became an insistent presence he could no longer ignore. "The calling and anointing just stayed on me until I just couldn't shake it no more," Rev. McDonald said. Summoning his courage, he approached his pastor. "I had to go tell my pastor," he said. "He told me, 'Yeah, I knew it from the day I met you, you know, that you had something over you.'"

And so began his journey into the ministry—
a path he had resisted but was destined to walk.

And so began his journey into the ministry—a path he had resisted but was destined to walk. Today, with over a decade of service, Rev. McDonald pours his heart into his congregations. "I love to serve God's people," he says. "Whatever—nursing homes, home visits—I love to pray for them as they're sick and shut-in. I go also to... when people die in their family, I have to go comfort them, no matter where they're at. I'm just doing God's calling."

His commitment stretches him paper thin, going beyond the walls of his churches. Every Sunday, he embarks on a 90-mile journey from Pine Bluff to Phillips County, a testament to his dedication. "I've been doing this since about 2018," he says. The three churches he leads meet on alternating Sundays, their doors open wide to welcome the weary and hopeful alike. Though the pews may not always be full, his devotion never wavers. "That's my wife, kind of like that," he says about his congregations. "I've got to keep all of them happy."

As Yale Divinity School explains it:  “The broad mission of the A.M.E. Church means that ministers must be prepared to fulfill a myriad of roles. W.E.B. DuBois writes about the many roles of the preacher in his magnum opus, “The Souls of Black Folk.” He writes, ‘The Preacher is the most unique personality developed by the Negro on American soil. A leader, a politician, an orator, a ‘boss,’ an intriguer, an idealist—[he is] all [of] these… “

When he's not shepherding his flocks, Rev. McDonald dedicates himself to the at-risk youth in his community. "I work at a high school," he explains. "I deal with... they are at risk of dropping out. So I work with the alternative students." These students are on the precipice of being lost by the educational system, and he serves as their last port in the storm. "I am there to be the bridge for them to be that successful student so they can see that they have their diploma, their high school diploma."

To these young souls, he is more than a teacher; he's a mentor, a confidant, a lifeline. "I show them love," he says simply. "I don't, you know, treat them like failures. They just messed up a lot of times." His own past lends him empathy. 

The demands of his ministry are heavy, and the
expectations from the church hierarchy weigh on him.

Life, however, is not without its trials. The demands of his ministry are heavy, and the expectations from the church hierarchy weigh on him. "Meeting the demands of your supervisors," he sighs. "As churches and population are declining everywhere... they still demand a lot out of you." Financial pressures add to the strain as the collection plate seems to grow lighter and lighter. 

Yet, he shoulders these burdens with grace, never letting the strain show in his sermons or his interactions. His personal life remains a quiet sanctuary. Unmarried, he channels his love and energy into his churches and his students. "I'm not married," he states. "I'm aspiring to be married. I'm waiting for my wife. God got her somewhere."

Family remains a cornerstone of his existence. His parents, though long divorced, maintain a cordial relationship, often united through his grandmother. "They've been divorced since 1994," he mentions. "But they're still friends. They work together." He cares deeply for them as they age. "My father, who is recently... is an amputee now, so I deal with him. I deal with my mother, who is ailing." His grandmother, now 91, continues to inspire him. "She's still fussing, you know, bossing everybody around."

There are moments when the weight of his responsibilities presses heavily upon him. "As a pastor, you can't say what you want to say," he says. "You can't do what you want to do. You got to move different. We are different." The constant scrutiny can be a burden. "People are always waiting for you to, you know, mess up," he says. Yet, he remains steadfast, understanding the importance of his role. "You're the example," he says, there’s no other choice.

Despite the challenges, regrets are few. His servant's heart guides him through the hardships, illuminating the path for others. "I give people my time, and that's all I can do," he says humbly. "I give them my resources, and I share knowledge with the young people that I come in contact with."

Rev. McDonald's story is one of reluctant surrender and unwavering devotion. He is a man who ran from his calling only to find that it was the very thing that would lead him home. Like the crops that push through the stubborn soil of Arkansas, he has grown where he was planted. His grandmother's strength runs in his veins, her faith echoes in his sermons, and her love mirrors in his own servant's heart.

In the quiet moments, when the sky blushes with the setting sun and the fields whisper their ancient songs, Rev. McDonald stands firm—a humble shepherd in a land that still believes in miracles. He measures success not by wealth or acclaim but by the number of lives he touches—the seeds he plants in hearts that might one day blossom into gardens of hope. "I just teach these young people life skills, man," he says with a gentle conviction. "Reach one, teach one."

And so, in the tapestry of his life, woven with threads of faith, sacrifice, and love, Rev. Dale McDonald continues his journey. He embraces his calling with the same fervor he once used to flee from it, finding solace and purpose in serving others. His story is not just his own but a reflection of the enduring human spirit—a testament to the power of faith to transform lives and communities alike.

In the heart of the Arkansas Delta, where the land stretches flat and fertile beneath an endless sky, lies the city of West Helena (pop. 8,689). This is a place where the Mississippi River has left its mark, carving out rich, dense soils that once promised prosperity. The Delta, a sub-region of the larger Mississippi Delta, is a landscape of paradoxes—abundant in natural wealth yet shadowed by hardship.

To view West Helena through the eyes of its Internet appearance, one would think the place is all Antebellum mansions, brisk shops, blues-infused cafes and bars, welcoming restaurants, and other southern-fried eateries. But that is a façade. Lift this thinly veiled tarp, and the promise plummets like a stone cast into the nearby Mississippi. I had stopped here in search of my next Hope & Generosity Tour profile subject. After we’d spent time together, he asked where I was off to next. I mentioned “nowhere and anywhere” and that I’d probably just hole up in a nearby WalMart parking lot for the night. 

“Oh no, you don’t wanna do that,” he warned. “Look around, you in the heart of the Delta, my friend. This is a rough place… I’d get out of here if I was you.” 

West Helena sits quietly along the river's edge, its streets lined with the echoes of better days. There was a time when cotton was king, and the fields stretched out like vast white oceans, teeming with labor and life. The cotton gins hummed with activity, and steamboats along the Mississippi carried the fruits of the land to distant markets. But those days have faded, and the prosperity that cotton brought has ebbed away like the river's retreating tide.

Today, the city bears the weight of tough economic times. Factories and businesses that once thrived now stand silent, their windows broken or boarded up, their walls marked by neglect. Unemployment casts a long shadow over the residents, many of whom struggle to find steady work in a place where opportunities are scarce. The poverty here is not the transient kind; it has settled in, taken root, and become part of the very fabric of the community.

Crime has become an unwelcome companion to poverty, feeding on despair and breeding in the cracks of a fractured society. The streets that once rang with the laughter of children now carry an undercurrent of unease. Yet, amid the challenges, there is a resilience that refuses to be extinguished. The people of West Helena carry on, bound by shared hardships and a collective hope for better days.

Crime has become an unwelcome companion to poverty,
feeding on despair and breeding in the cracks of a fractured society.

Scattered throughout the city are numerous churches, their steeples reaching toward the heavens like hands in prayer. These houses of worship have sprouted across West Helena, serving as beacons of solace and community. On Sundays, the streets come alive with the sound of hymns and the gathering of the faithful. The churches are more than just buildings; they are the heartbeats of the neighborhoods, offering spiritual nourishment where material sustenance is often lacking.

In the Delta, faith is woven into the fabric of daily life. It is the thread that binds families and neighbors, a refuge from the storms that batter the community. The pastors here are not just spiritual leaders but also pillars of support, counselors, and advocates. They understand the struggles of their congregations because they share in them. Their sermons speak of endurance and redemption, of finding light in the darkness.

The landscape of West Helena is marked by contrasts. The natural beauty of the Delta—the fertile fields, the sunsets that paint the sky in hues of gold and crimson—stands in stark opposition to the dilapidated buildings and neglected streets. Yet there is a raw authenticity to this place, a truth that is unvarnished and unapologetic.

There is a raw authenticity to this place, a
truth that is unvarnished and unapologetic.

 Families gather on porches in the evenings, sharing stories and watching as the day gives way to night. Children play in open lots, their laughter a reminder that innocence persists even in the face of adversity. There is a sense of community here that runs deep, a recognition that survival depends not just on individual effort but on collective support.

Education faces its own set of challenges. Schools are underfunded, and resources are thin. Teachers do what they can, often going beyond their duties to provide guidance and encouragement. They know that education is a beacon of hope for the younger generation, a possible path out of the cycle of poverty that grips the region.

The Delta has always been a place of stories—stories of struggle and triumph, of sorrow and joy. The blues were born here, the music echoing the soul's aches and aspirations. In West Helena, the notes still linger, carried on the breeze that rustles through the cotton fields.

Despite the hardships, there is an undercurrent of hope. Community leaders and organizations work tirelessly to revive the city, to attract new businesses, and to create opportunities. Initiatives aimed at improving education, reducing crime, and fostering economic development are ongoing. The road is long and fraught with obstacles, but the spirit of determination is palpable.

Despite the hardships, there is an undercurrent of hope.

West Helena is a reflection of the broader struggles faced by many rural communities in America. It is a place where history weighs heavily, where the sins of the past cast long shadows over the present. Yet it is also a place where the human spirit persists, where faith and community offer a bulwark against despair.

In the quiet moments, when the sun dips below the horizon and the Mississippi flows steady and silent, there is a sense of timelessness. The Delta endures, as it always has, bearing witness to the lives of those who call it home. West Helena, with all its imperfections and challenges, is a testament to resilience—a city that, despite the odds, continues to seek a path forward.

The churches stand firm, their doors open to all who seek comfort. The pastors preach not just of heaven but of hope on earth. They know that salvation here comes in many forms—a helping hand, a kind word, a shared meal. The community, though battered, is bound together by these small acts of grace.

In the end, West Helena is more than a place on a map; it is a story of endurance. It is a place where the past and present intertwine, where the land holds memories of both hardship and hope. The Delta's soil is rich, not just in nutrients but in history and humanity. And perhaps, like the mighty river that runs alongside it, West Helena will find its way, carving a new path through the landscape of adversity.