Stories speak from the walls of the Eudora Baptist Church. Rather than words, they use images to tell tales of faith, family and community through a gallery of intricate mosaics created by church kids over the past 25 years.
Tiny, colorful pieces comprise each work: There’s one made from puzzle pieces, one from buttons, one from small toys. Another uses fishing lures, sourced from church members. One year, the church asked for congregants’ unused costume jewelry. Those sparkly chains and beads were used to create a piece featuring the biblical story of Esther beneath a row of watches. It reminds us that we are here “for such a time as this.”
Stunned is the word that comes to mind when I walked through the church’s doors a few weeks ago and discovered the mosaics. I was there for another purpose, but was immediately drawn to the large pieces that, one right after the other, line the church’s hallways.
“I knew that they had to be among the most unique creations that I have seen,” said Sandi Green Baker, a retired art educator who saw the mosaics — that she classified as “outsider folk art” — with me that day. “Every single one of these works is worthy of being exhibited at the folk art museum in New York City, the Smithsonian and internationally at the most prestigious of galleries. I can’t recall being more moved in emotion by these glorious mosaics.”
They’re a reminder of the power and presence of art: You don’t have to have formal training to share a message or to benefit from creativity. You just need a desire. And, in rural spaces and communities, it’s another option as we search for ways to bring people together.
Seeing the Mosaic Come to Life
It was a hectic — and happy, if the children’s voices were any indication — day when I drove to Camp Graydon Springs in rural Polk County, Missouri. I was there to see the formation of 2026’s mosaic, “The Seven Days of Creation,” which tells the biblical story of God’s forming the world in six days, with the seventh for rest.
In the camp’s rustic welcome center, I found Rhonda Barnhouse, the project’s leader, whose natural talent and commitment have resulted in nearly 25 mosaics.
Campers Rilynn and Macy work on the 2026 mosaic. (Photo by Kaitlyn McConnell)
“The kids will come back every year, and they’ll say, ‘I made that strawberry,’” Barnhouse said. “Or they may say, ‘I put that very single piece,’ and they will remember it year after year. We’re on about our third generation now.”
Barnhouse, a rural U.S. Postal Service employee, doesn’t have formal art training, but she has helped lead the project since another congregant suggested it a quarter-century ago. The idea came about when they heard another church in a larger place led a similar project. It starts with an idea and a board.
“Sometimes we go with the camp theme, sometimes it’s a story, sometimes it’s something that kids have said, ‘Let’s do…,’” Barnhouse said. She then sketches and paints a template on a wooden board. “Then (we) just pretty much give them the stuff to work with, and then they kind of do the creating.”
The materials they use vary each year. The medium this year is fuse beads, tiny colorful pieces of plastic that can either be glued down individually or placed in patterns and ironed together to make larger designs.
“Fuse beads have been at camp since the very beginning, and they’re kind of a love-hate thing, because they require a lot,” Barnhouse said. “One of the kids last year mentioned doing fuse beads; they’ve been saying to do seven days of creation for a long time. It’s just kind of a hard one, because there’s a lot that goes on instead of just one picture.”
2026, it turns out, was the year. During my visit on Tuesday of the week-long camp, parts of the mosaic were already being filled in: Some with those individual beads attached with tacky glue, others used to create animals (including a floral-patterned deer) to attach as well. Even though a template exists, there’s still room for flexibility as the kids’ creativity comes through.
“I want people to know that it’s kids that do it,” Barnhouse said. “We just get them ready and give them the tools and tell them what they’re doing, and then pretty much the kids are doing the work.”
Creating a Collective Memory
This feels like a fitting place to wax nostalgic about the role of Vacation Bible School in rural culture, at least here in the Ozarks. I typically remember those experiences as a kid via grandparents’ churches and nearby country congregations. However, my beloved church-basement experiences were not on the same level as those of the kids at the Eudora church, which hosts the annual gathering at Camp Graydon Springs, a former Camp Fire camp that even earlier drew tourists for its water’s purported medical benefits.
Mosaics at the church include ones made from crayons, buttons, Lego blocks, seashells and even items from church members’ “junk” drawers. (Photo by Kaitlyn McConnell)
This camp takes things to the next level: In a “let’s save every soul there is” approach, more than 450 kids and volunteers attend the camp, run by the Eudora congregation in a town so small it doesn’t come up in the U.S. Census online database. Some families, I’m told, bring kids from hours away to attend the camp, which costs just $25 to join. Scholarships are also available for those who can’t afford that fee.
Throughout the day, as they swim in the pool, wade in the creek, enjoy burgers, play volleyball and tetherball, and hear Bible lessons, they also trickle in to work on the mosaic.
“I think it’s cool because (the mosaics) go up at our church and we can see them all from years ago,” a camper told me. She’s been involved for about 10 years. Her favorite: The year they made one from Legos.
When the camp season is complete, the mosaic is displayed at the church for a few weeks so congregants can see it up close. Then, as tradition has evolved, it’s permanently hung on the church’s wall, representing a religious theme, a time-capsule representing a time in life for the kids who participated, and a unique piece of art.
The mosaic also stands as an example of art as a connection point in rural spaces.
“Each community has different traditions, like this project in Eudora,” said Leslie Forrester, executive director of the Springfield Regional Arts Council, a nonprofit that supports the arts in 27 southwest Missouri counties. “I’m not sure that I know something exactly like this, but that’s why it’s so fantastic! It was built in Eudora, by Eudora, for Eudora.”
“It rarely works when something comes to a community from the outside to ‘show’ a community how to do art,” Forrester continued. “There is no longevity there. But when this type of project develops organically and becomes a part of the fabric of the local culture, that’s when we see projects become legacy. These legacy events, those that become long-running traditions, help build a sense of community and ownership. When these events or projects live beyond a founder, that’s when something becomes a part of the identity of the community or region.”
Part of a Bigger Tradition
Barnhouse and I stepped away from camp and headed about five miles away to the church. Inside, we walked through the gallery of mosaics. The story of Moses and the burning bush is aflame with sequins. The story of Jonah and the whale was done in seashells. The inspiration is a mix of creativity and divine inspiration.
Ultimately, those designs are “a God thing,” Barnhouse told me, but economics and sustainability can factor in, too. Remember that reference to Legos? That was likely a one-and-done. The year after the very expensive mosaic was completed, they simply used paper torn from church magazines.
“It’s got really good, glossy, thick pages and lots of color in it,” Barnhouse said. “And so we just cut and basically made confetti. That year, we didn’t have anything in it but glue.”
Another mosaic was made entirely from eggshells.
“We collected halves of eggshells, and I had them on a tarp out in the yard, and I spray painted them,” Barnhouse said. “We didn’t spray paint a lot, because you can get blue eggs and a lot of brown eggs.
“We didn’t break them until just right before,” she added. “I didn’t want kids putting down, like, a huge piece of eggshell. That one worked out good.”
I could go on and on, but just one more: The one made of stamps, which feels fitting given Barnhouse’s work at the post office. But it’s not just any stamps: They are vintage, representing a span from half-cent varieties to various countries and colors.
“We can’t use them out of what we have now, because they’re stickers,” Barnhouse said of modern-day postal stamps. “It had to be the old, like lick-and-stick kind, because you could peel them off. There’s some neat postmarks on there, too.”
The mosaics also represent the passage of time and the handing down of tradition that is personal. They often include “Easter eggs,” surprise elements that are “seen” by the congregation but likely unknown to others. At the church, Barnhouse points out past mosaics featuring hidden-in-plain-sight details. There’s a cuff of a shirt that belonged to a congregant. Beads with initials. A rock, one of many collected for a mom by her son who passed away.
“I don’t want them to just stand out,” Barnhouse said of those “memorial” notes. “It’s more for the people to know. And if you were looking at that, you would have never seen it.”
Sandi Green Baker, a retired arts educator, photographs the mosaic commemorating the life and service of the church’s late pastor, Lon Killingsworth, who died a few weeks before camp began years ago. They quickly changed the mosaic’s theme that year, focusing on him and using materials found in his workshop. (Photo by Kaitlyn McConnell)
One entire mosaic carries the weight of grief, hope and promise. It depicts the church’s late beloved pastor — Lon Killingsworth, who died shortly before camp began one year — it includes materials found in his woodworking shop.
“Throughout the week as we worked on the mosaic, the Lord brought the entire thing to life and showed Himself through each piece that went into the mosaic,” notes a framed document hanging next to the finished work. “Some very special supplies that are included in this year’s mosaic came from Brother Lon’s workshop. There are several different types of sawdust and wood shavings from different saws that he used. We used the sawdust and shavings in many places on the mosaic.
“The mosaic this year is a tribute to Lon Killingsworth, but it can be more than that to each of us; it can be a reminder to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength and love our neighbor as ourselves.”
There are closer-to-home impacts, too. The mosaic project has been going on for so long that now multiple generations are involved. In a way, it’s a means of passing down stories.
“When I stopped being a camper … I came as many days as I could to help,” said Abbie Morris, Barnhouse’s daughter and a stay-at-home mom to the third generation of mosaic creators. Ultimately, she expects to help carry on the mosaics in the future when Barnhouse is unable to continue herself.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said of the tradition. “And watching the kids learn how to do it —– them learning their lessons and (sharing them) here —– it’s just so cool.”
Looking to the future, I asked Barnhouse to explain why the work is meaningful. For her, it’s part of a greater mission: One she hopes has impacts far beyond this life, both in spiritual and here-and-now ways.
“For sure I want them to come to know the Lord,” she said. “I mean, I want them to know that this is something He did — and if they don’t know that, I want them to ask questions.”
The post Ozarks Notebook: ‘Outsider Folk Art’ Made of a Million Pieces appeared first on The Daily Yonder.
