They’re still deep in slumber right now.
All three of them, nestled closely under that thin blue blanket, as if it’s the most comforting sanctuary in the entire world.
I observe the gentle rise and fall of their chests and imagine—just for a fleeting moment—that this is merely a holiday escape.
We had set up the tent behind a rest stop, just beyond the county border.
Technically, it wasn’t permitted, but it’s remarkably quiet, and the security guard cast a look my way yesterday that suggested he wouldn’t ask us to leave.
Not yet, anyway.
I informed the boys we were embarking on a camping adventure.
“Just us guys,” I declared, making it sound like an exciting expedition.
As if I hadn’t pawned my wedding ring merely three days prior to cover the cost of gasoline and peanut butter.
The truth is… they’re simply too young to discern the actual circumstances.
They perceive sleeping on inflatable mattresses and consuming cereal from disposable paper cups as an enjoyable activity.
They believe I possess courage.
As though I have some brilliant strategy in mind.
But in reality, I’ve been contacting every shelter from this location all the way to Roseville, and not a single one has an available space for four individuals.
The last facility mentioned perhaps Tuesday.
Perhaps.
Their mother departed six weeks ago.
She stated she was going to her sister’s place.
She left a note and half a bottle of Advil resting on the kitchen counter.
I haven’t received any communication from her since.
I’ve been managing to hold myself together, just barely.
Washing up at gas stations.
Inventing elaborate tales.
Maintaining their established bedtime routines.
Tucking them into bed as if everything is perfectly fine.
But last night… my middle child, Micah, uttered something indistinctly in his sleep.
He murmured, “Daddy, I prefer this over the motel.”
And that moment almost shattered me completely.
Because he was undeniably correct.
And because I know that tonight might very well be the final night I can sustain this illusion.
Immediately after they awaken, I have to impart some news to them.
Something I’ve been dreading with every fiber of my being.
And as I began to slowly unzip the tent opening—
Micah stirred slightly.
“Daddy?” he whispered softly, gently rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Can we go visit the ducks again?”
He was referring to the ducks at the pond situated near the rest stop.
We had visited them the previous evening, and he had laughed with more genuine joy than I had heard in many weeks.
I forced a smile onto my face.
“Yes, buddy. As soon as your brothers are awake.”
By the time we had gathered our few belongings and brushed our teeth at the sink located behind the building, the sun was already intensely baking the grass.
My youngest child, Toby, held my hand securely and hummed a quiet tune,
while my eldest, Caleb, kicked at loose rocks and inquired if we would be going hiking today.
I was just about to inform them that we couldn’t remain another night when I noticed her.
A woman, seemingly in her late sixties, was approaching us,
carrying a paper bag in one hand and a remarkably large thermos in the other.
She was dressed in a worn-out flannel shirt and had a long braid extending down her back.
I assumed she was going to inquire about our well-being—or, even worse, instruct us to depart.
Instead, she offered a warm smile and extended the bag toward us.
“Morning,” she greeted.
“You boys care for some breakfast?”
The boys’ faces lit up with excitement before I could even formulate a response.
Inside the bag were freshly baked, warm biscuits and perfectly boiled eggs,
and the thermos contained hot cocoa.
Not coffee—cocoa.
Specifically for them.
“I’m Jean,” she introduced herself, settling down on the curb alongside us.
“I’ve observed you out here for a couple of nights now.”
I simply nodded, uncertain of how to respond.
I did not desire pity.
Yet, her countenance displayed no trace of pity.
Only… genuine kindness.
“I once found myself in a challenging situation too,” she added, as if she possessed the ability to read my thoughts.
“It wasn’t camping, though.
I slept in a church van for two months with my daughter back in ‘99.”
I blinked in surprise.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes. People would simply pass us by as if we were completely invisible.
I decided I wouldn’t do the same to others.”
I don’t know what compelled me, but I revealed the entire truth to her.
About the motel.
About their mother’s departure.
About the shelters continuously saying “perhaps.”
She merely listened attentively, nodding her head slowly in understanding.
Then she uttered something I absolutely did not anticipate:
“Come with me. I know of a place.”
I hesitated briefly.
“Is it a shelter?” I inquired.
“No,” she replied gently.
“It’s better than that.”
We followed her old sedan down a lengthy gravel road,
my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, my heart pounding with anticipation.
I kept glancing back at the boys, who were laughing at something Toby had said,
completely unaware that we were pursuing what felt like a miracle.
We pulled up to what appeared to be a farm.
It was fenced in, with a large red barn, a small white house, and a couple of goats in the yard.
A sign affixed to the gate read: The Second Wind Project.
Jean provided an explanation while we stood on the porch.
It was a community—operated entirely by volunteers—
offering short-term accommodations to families experiencing a crisis.
No governmental bureaucracy.
No exhaustive ten-page forms to complete.
Only individuals genuinely helping other individuals.
“You’ll have a roof over your heads, some sustenance, and ample time to regain your footing,” she assured us.
I swallowed hard, a lump forming in my throat.
“What’s the catch?” I finally managed to ask.
“No catch at all,” she responded.
“Only a request for a little assistance.
Feed the animals.
Help with the cleaning.
Perhaps construct something if you possess the skills.”
That night, we slept in an actual bed.
All four of us shared one room, but it had solid walls, illumination, and a fan that hummed softly and consistently.
I tucked the boys into bed and then sat on the floor, weeping like a small child.
During the following week, I chopped firewood, repaired a fence, and even learned how to milk a goat.
The boys quickly befriended another family residing there—a single mother with twin girls.
They chased after chickens, gathered wild berries, and learned to express “thank you” with every single meal.
One evening, I sat with Jean on the porch.
“How did you discover this place?” I asked her.
She smiled gently.
“I didn’t discover it. I built it myself.
I began on a small scale.
I was a nurse, and my grandmother had left me a small plot of land.
I decided I wanted to be someone’s guiding signpost rather than just a fleeting memory.”
Her words resonated deeply within me.
Two weeks stretched into a full month.
By that point, I had managed to save a modest amount of money from undertaking various odd jobs around town.
A local mechanic shop permitted me to observe their mechanics,
and one day the owner, a wiry man named Frank, handed me a paycheck and declared,
“Return on Monday if you desire more work.”
We continued to stay at the farm for an additional six weeks.
By then, I had secured a stable part-time job, earning sufficient income to rent a tiny duplex on the outskirts of town.
The rent was affordable because the floor subtly slanted and the pipes groaned audibly at night,
but it was unequivocally ours.
We moved in the day before school commenced.
The boys never inquired why we had left the motel or why we had resided in a tent.
They consistently referred to it as “the adventure.”
To this very day, Micah informs people that we lived on a farm and actively participated in building a fence while goats observed our efforts.
But something significant occurred three months after we had moved into our new home.
One Sunday morning, I discovered an envelope tucked neatly under our doormat.
There was no name indicated.
Only the words “Thank you” inscribed on the front.
Inside was a photograph—an aged one—of Jean, appearing youthful, cradling a baby on her hip,
standing directly in front of the identical barn.
On the reverse side, a note written in blocky handwriting stated:
“What you extended to my mother, she extended to you.
Please extend it forward when you have the opportunity.”
I inquired around, but no one seemed to know who had left it there.
Jean no longer answered her phone.
When I drove back to the farm, it was completely deserted.
A handwritten sign hung on the gate: “Resting Now. Help Someone Else.”
So that is precisely what I did.
I began to regularly pick up groceries for the elderly lady residing down the street.
I repaired my neighbor’s leaky sink.
I gave my old tent to a man who had recently lost his employment and was unsure of where to go.
One night, a man knocked on our door—he appeared frightened, with two small children clinging tightly to him.
He mentioned that someone at the food pantry had told him I might be aware of a suitable place.
I did not hesitate for a single moment.
I prepared hot cocoa.
I allowed them to sleep in our living room for the night.
That marked the inception of something entirely new.
I spoke with the mechanic shop, and Frank willingly agreed to take him on,
employing him in the same manner he had employed me.
I contacted a few friends.
We managed to acquire furniture, clothing, and shoes for the children.
And gradually… our home transformed into someone else’s second chance.
I used to believe that hitting rock bottom signified the absolute end.
Now I understand that, for certain individuals, it can be the very beginning.
We were never truly camping.
But somehow, in the process of losing absolutely everything,
we discovered more than I could have ever possibly imagined.
And every single time I tuck my boys into bed now,
I still vividly hear Micah’s heartfelt words.
“Daddy, I like this better.”
So do I, buddy. So do I.
Sometimes, the lowest point you reach is exactly where you are destined to flourish.