My three boys were still asleep, huddled under a thin blanket in our tent behind a rest stop. I told them we were on a camping trip. Truth is, I’d sold my wedding ring days ago just to buy gas and peanut butter.
They don’t know we’re homeless. They think cereal in paper cups is an adventure. They still think I’m brave.
Their mom left six weeks ago—no goodbye, just a note and an empty bottle of Advil.
Last night, my son mumbled, “Daddy, I like this better than the motel.” I almost broke.
That morning, as I debated how to tell them we couldn’t stay another night, a woman named Jean appeared with biscuits and cocoa. “I used to be where you are,” she said. “Come with me.”
She took us to a small farm shelter called The Second Wind Project. No paperwork, no judgment—just kindness. I worked the fields. The boys played. We stayed for weeks.
Eventually, I got a job, saved up, and moved us into a tiny duplex. On move-in day, I found an envelope: a photo of Jean as a young mom, and a note—“What you gave my mom, she gave to you. Pay it forward.”
The farm was gone. A sign on the gate read: Resting Now. Help Someone Else.
So, I did.
Groceries for a neighbor. My old tent to someone in need. Cocoa and shelter for another father and his kids.
Turns out, rock bottom wasn’t the end. It was where hope began.
And Micah still says, “Daddy, I like this better.”
Honestly? So do I.
