Poppy's Place

1 · Finding the Door

Gallipolis, Ohio. For three days I’d idled in this French-named town waiting on a back-ordered prescription, walking the levee, counting barges shoving coal north. I was restless, coffee-starved, and half-mad for conversation that wasn’t my own echo.

"Poppy's Coffee, Tea, and Remedies" sat on a side street, among a row of mostly abandoned shops downtown. Its hand-painted had a cool vibe, I went with it and decided to step inside.

I killed the ignition, patted Josie’s dash, and stepped into drizzle. As I opened the door, a small faded note in the corner of the plate glass window caught my eye: Food Pantry Inside for Children & Homeless—Come In and Just Ask. I filed the notice in the mental junk drawer where curiosities rattle until they demand inspection.

The door creaked like it hadn't seen grease in a decade. Inside, the plank floors were lit by soft Edison bulbs glowing orange. An entire wall served as a real-time testimonial: handwritten greetings scrawled by visitors from Memphis, Mumbai, and Marietta.

Before I could find a corner table, a body loomed beside me, wiping hands on a burlap towel. “Mornin’. I’m Greg Hill—folks call me Poppy. What can I brew ya?”

Six-four if an inch. Beard a tangle of iron filings shading to silver. Big paws, but eyes soft as river silt. The contradiction disarmed me. I ordered coffee, black. He nodded like that answered larger questions.

2 · Four Requests and a Question

I’d planned to edit some pictures and my rat’s nest of notes, but the shop itself became the study. Within the first hour of sitting in the place, no less than four people came in looking for some kind of handout, free food (not from the pantry), free coffee, or both. Each request was met with an upbeat, warm, and inviting greeting—the kind that passes for everyday fare in small towns. No cash register rang for those transactions; compassion moved in quieter currency.

And that's when I knew there was more behind this coffee shop than its bookshelf full of homeopathic remedies. I knew I had to know more about this place serving as an unassuming front for something much bigger than first met the eye. 

It was a better story than I could have imagined...

You see, it wasn't long ago that Greg and his wife, Lori, stood at the helm of something most wouldn’t associate with virtue. They ran the largest porn and head shop in town—a place that carried the dark, seedy secrets of men and women looking to fill the empty hours. But that was years ago. Life, they’d tell you, takes unexpected turns, and sometimes you find salvation in the places you least expect. Almost overnight, they found a faith that turned their lives completely around. They sold out of the incredibly lucrative porn trade and took over a struggling coffee shop. 

3 · From Porn to Psalms

The first week in charge they cleared some shelf space in the shop’s eight-foot-by-ten office—and stocked it with cereal and other dry goods. “We figured five, ten neighbors might stop by,” Greg said. “The Lord had bigger math.” Word spread; bags of beans and diapers crowded every corner. When the closet burst, they rented the vacant storefront next door, then another. Lori filed paperwork, and Court Street Ministries was born—food pantry, hot-meal kitchen, clothing room, prayer booth, all wedged into three adjoining buildings on Court Street. 

Every Thursday, volunteers ladle chili and dish out USDA surplus to more than three hundred clients—families, veterans, and the lonely. Lines snake down the block. Expenses hover near desperation, but “somehow,” he grinned, “God restocks freezers when we’re down to frost.”

4 · Lori in Motion

While Greg narrated, Lori buzzed around the coffee shop. Between bites I watched her orchestrate a ballet of charity—answering phone, jotting volunteer schedules, correcting a coffee order, signing delivery invoices—all without misplacing her smile.

It’s Lori who keeps the engine running here, a one-woman dynamo who, alongside Greg, manages not just Court St. Ministries but also the cozy little coffee shop that has become a sanctuary for the town’s wanderers. And somehow she finds time to volunteer at the local Lion's Club and Rotary Club.

Lori is tireless and resolute. She moves through the coffee shop knowing exactly what she's doing and why. She’s quick to give, but she’s no pushover. There’s a balance in her heart—an understanding that while charity must flow freely, it must also inspire those who receive it to give back. I watched as she gently admonished one longtime “patron” of the coffee shop—a man who had taken from the kindness of others long enough.

“It’s time to start giving back,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Be here Thursday. We need help feeding those folks, and you’re gonna be part of the crew.”

Her words were not a command but an invitation to join something greater than oneself. And maybe that’s what makes Lori and Greg so special. They see every soul as part of the community, not just recipients of charity but participants in the grand story they’re writing, one meal at a time.

5 · The Envelope in My Pocket

Ten days of travel, and I had yet to choose my next recipient. I’d talked myself into prudence, waiting for some perfect narrative. Greg and Lori’s coffee shop offered up rust-belt generosity—my ribs hummed yes. Yet I hesitated. Would money sully the grace already in motion? Would it embarrass them?

I spent the day touring the Court St. Ministries facilities. What had started as a part-time pantry and blossomed into a full-time commitment. There were now three entire buildings given over to storing food, one had freezers stuffed in every corner to hold the spare USDA meat that came in. I winched thinking about the electric bill. In addition to the coffee shop, there was also a thrift store–no charge for anything taken if you could’t afford it.

Lori admitted that sometimes supplies ran thin. “God finds a way to provide,” Greg said. “Always has, always will.” The envelope in my pocket grew heavier by the syllable.

7 · What a Thousand Dollars Buys

At the end of the day I sat down with Greg and Lori to thank them for their time, generosity and hospitality. I told them they were exactly the kind of people the Hope & Generosity Tour was looking for. “For all you do, and because I know you never ask for anything in return, I’d like to give you this,” I said, sliding the fat $1,000 slack their way. “It’s a thousand dollars, cash, no strings attached. Do whatever you want with it. Keep it, give it away or buy something for somebody. You know where the need lies better than I do.” 

Their eyes welled up. Greg caught his breath and told me the story of George Muller who, at the turn of the century, took in and cared for hundreds of orphans. He never asked for money. “The lord always provided,” Greg said, wiping a tear away. “We’ve been wondering how we pay the electric bill for those freezers,” he said. “We hadn’t told anyone.” He held the stack of 20s aloft like a loaves-and-fishes prop. “God just provided,” he said. 

8 · Afternoon Debrief

As I was headed back out to Josie, crickets sang; humidity clung. Lori intercepted me and asked if I could use a “real bed,” a shower and a place to stay for the night. I know enough to never turn down the hospitality of strangers. Turns out that they have a refurbished one-bedroom apartment above the main Court St. Ministries building that they use just for such occasions. I gratefully accepted their offer. 

9 · Leaving Court Street

Next morning I found Lori rattling around in the coffee shop’s small, tidy kitchen. She pressed a paper sack into my hands—scones and prayers folded like origami cranes. “Road fuel,” she winked. 

I rolled south along the river. In the rearview, Court Street shrank to a pin, but the envelope’s echo filled the van. One thousand dollars—fifty $20 bills—had evaporated into the electric bill, enough to keep the freezers running one more month. Yet the gift grew heavier as miles accrued: weight measured not in currency but consequence.

10 · Reflections on a Billfold Sacrament

Money is a peculiar sacrament. 

Greg and Lori will still scramble for rent next month. My envelope was a breath, not a resurrection. Yet breath is what keeps a body moving between miracles. Maybe that is the Hope & Generosity Tour’s hidden thesis: become breath for lungs short on air, then move on before ego wants applause.

Josie rattled over a pothole, silverware clinking in the drawer. The Ohio shimmered beside us. I thought of the line: food pantry inside—just come in and ask. What a daring invitation: just ask. How many of us shrink from need because we fear rejection? Poppy’s door swings open five days a week, coffee steam mingling with vulnerability.