(This is the second part of a two part series.) There, on top of the tree-shaded hill, a stone’s throw from the Appalachian Trail, sets the tiny, white clapboard church called Corinth Baptist. The view is stunning. The Appalachian foothills roll gently covered by trees that are a century or two old. A wide expanse of flat, rich green pastureland lies close to the church and collectively, it creates a God-awing view. It is more than quiet. It is serene. Corinth, the church that my great-uncle Oscar Cannon had lovingly moved from a mile away and had also overseen its upkeep for much of his 95 years, set abandoned for years. Tree limbs covered the roof, cobwebs blocked the doors and, inside, dust thickly painted over the memories of the hard wood pews and out-of-tune piano.