My daddy spent most of his adult life covered in black coal dust.
Yes, I am a coal miner’s daughter.
Daddy worked 29 years in coal mines owned by U.S. Steel. Six days a week he would rise before the sun, my mom waking with him. As he stepped into his Liberty overalls and steel-toed boots, mom cooked him breakfast; bacon, fried eggs and toast or biscuits and gravy. He kissed her good-bye at the backdoor, loaded into his pick-up truck and drove to Oak Grove, Alabama where he spent his day in the damp, dark underground.
When he returned in the late afternoon, he was coated head-to-toe in coal dust. He would leave his lunchbox and Coleman water jug on the deck, hang his keys on the first hook mounted to our kitchen wall, and walk to his bathroom to shower. We called it his bathroom because none of us, my mom, brothers or I, used it much; maybe because it was tiny, and maybe because we didn’t want to wear coal dust, too.
For all those years working in the mines my daddy’s legacy to me is not measured in coal dust. Rather, it’s written in pink ink on page five of my baby book.
He scribed these pastel-laden words in 1977:
Every family in the world,
Needs at least one girl.
Our girl, we will love truly,
Her name will be Julie.
A second set of pastel letters also exhibits my daddy’s affection for me. I unpack it every spring with the rest of my Easter décor. My name is crafted in hand painted wooden letters – light pink, blue, yellow and green – bookended by a bunny and a butterfly, and mounted on a 12 inch by 2 inch kelly green board.
Daddy noticed that nameplate at a souvenir shop in Stone Mountain, Georgia where we vacationed almost every summer. I was probably 10-years-old.
“Julie” was on display for a create-your-own souvenir cart that allowed customers to spell any word they wanted. Daddy asked if he could buy the already-assembled make of my name and they let him.
The color scheme completely clashed with the bright red, blue and yellow hearts that decorated my bedroom. Matching didn’t matter. It was my name, and in an era of personalized pencils, bicycle plates, and other paraphernalia I was happy to have it.
The poem and plaque daddy gifted to me, though cherished, are not the proudest presence of my name. That honor belongs to my original last name.
Daddy’s last name. Echols.
Echols represents my roots. It links me to the legacy my daddy left for me, and one I hope to pass along to my daughters.
I created this blog as a baby step towards a larger and longer journey God is leading me on. At the advice of an author, I sought to set up a website with my first and last name. Juliereyburn.com was unavailable, and rightfully so because I am not Julie Reyburn.
I am Julie Echols Reyburn.
My roots run deep into the coal mines. They also carry me to Jesus’ cross.
Because of my daddy, I am rooted and established in love. As I am inspired by his legacy of faith, my desire is to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ.
And I’ll pass that to my daughters, too.
“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge – that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullnesss of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work with us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.
(Ephesians 3:17-21)
