From Demon’s Grip to Moonshiner’s Redemption
The Continuing Chronicles of Robert Shuler Sheffey: Appalachian Apostle
The battle in Crow Hollow raged through the night, a spiritual war that shook the very foundations of the mountains. As dawn broke, Robert Sheffey stood victorious, his clothes torn and muddy, but his spirit unbroken. The girl, now free from demonic possession, lay peacefully in her parents’ arms, while the hollow itself seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Word of Sheffey’s triumph spread quickly through the Appalachian hills and hollers. Some called it a miracle, others dismissed it as mountain folklore, but all agreed that Robert Sheffey was a man touched by divine power.
In the months that followed, Sheffey’s reputation grew. He continued his circuit, bringing the Word to the most remote corners of the Blue Ridge. But the encounter in Crow Hollow had changed him, deepening his resolve and sharpening his spiritual senses.
It was in this state of heightened awareness that Sheffey found himself in the autumn of 1853, guiding his faithful horse along a narrow mountain trail. The crisp air carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke, but there was something else — an acrid smell that made Sheffey’s nostrils flare.
He knew that smell. It was the scent of fermenting corn mash, the telltale sign of a moonshine still.
As Sheffey rounded a bend, he came upon a clearing where a crude still stood, steam rising from its copper pipes. A burly man with a thick beard and eyes like flint stood guard, a shotgun cradled in his arms.
Sheffey felt the familiar stirring in his spirit. This wasn’t Crow Hollow, with its dramatic confrontation against supernatural evil. But he knew that sometimes, the most insidious darkness wore a very human face.
“You’ve wandered onto private property, Preacher,” the man growled, recognizing Sheffey’s clerical collar. “Best turn around and forget what you’ve seen.”
Sheffey dismounted slowly, his piercing blue eyes — the same eyes that had stared down demons — never leaving the moonshiner’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, friend. I’m Robert Sheffey, and I’ve come to bring the light of God to this hollow.”
The moonshiner’s laugh was as harsh as winter wind. “Name’s Jeb Hawkins, and the only light we need here comes from our still fire. Now git, before I decide to use this shotgun.”
But Sheffey stood his ground, his voice ringing with conviction. “Mr. Hawkins, I’ve looked into the eyes of demons and cast them out in Jesus’ name. Do you think your shotgun frightens me?”
For a moment, the two men stared at each other, the air crackling with tension. Then, to Sheffey’s surprise, Jeb lowered his gun.
“You’ve got guts, Preacher, I’ll give you that,” Jeb said, a note of grudging respect in his voice. “But you don’t know what you’re asking. This still is all that stands between my family and starvation.”
Sheffey’s expression softened. “Then let me help you find a better way. One that doesn’t poison your neighbors and damn your own soul.”
What followed was a conversation that lasted deep into the night. Sheffey listened as Jeb poured out his life story — the poverty, the desperation, the guilt that gnawed at him with every jug of moonshine he sold.
As dawn broke over the mountains, Jeb Hawkins fell to his knees, tears streaming down his weathered face. “Preacher,” he choked out, “I want to be free. Help me find the way.”
Sheffey knelt beside him, his own eyes glistening. “The way is Jesus, Jeb. And He’s been waiting for you all along.”
The transformation that swept through Whiskey Hollow in the following months was nothing short of miraculous. Jeb Hawkins not only destroyed his still but became Sheffey’s most ardent supporter. His wife and children, seeing the change in him, soon followed him to the foot of the cross.
The Hawkins family turned their land into a place of refuge for other moonshiners looking to escape the trade. Jeb’s knowledge of the mountains proved invaluable as he guided Sheffey to other hidden stills, not as an informer, but as a messenger of hope.
Years later, when Robert Sheffey returned to Whiskey Hollow, he found a thriving community centered around a small church — pastored by none other than Jeb Hawkins himself.
As Sheffey stood to preach that Sunday, he looked out over the congregation — former moonshiners, their families, and even some of the revenue agents who had once hunted them — all brought together by the transforming power of God’s love.
“Behold,” Sheffey began, his voice filled with wonder and gratitude, “what manner of love the Father has bestowed upon us, that we should be called children of God.”
And as a chorus of “Amens” filled the little church, Robert Sheffey knew that this — the redemption of Jeb Hawkins and the transformation of Whiskey Hollow — would forever stand as a testament to the life-changing power of faith, love, and second chances.
