This post is a part of the Travel Stories series at Prodigal Magazine.
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I was ready. Four hundred forty-four miles of winding, commercialism-free
road lay ahead of us. My tiny car was packed for camping along the Natchez
Trace Parkway, spanning the distance between Natchez, Mississippi and
Nashville, Tennessee.
Two hours into the trip, with rain pouring in sheets, my
sister and I realized we forgot something vital – prayer. So we stopped and prayed that God’s will be done on this
trip. That we would be His hands and feet to all we encountered. For
protection. And almost as an afterthought – that He roll away the rain clouds.
Within minutes I was able to open the sunroof, marveling at the love of my
Heavenly Father.
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| Natchez Trace Parkway after the rain |
We drove this way for 170 miles until heavy grey clouds began
to drop hail onto the road ahead. It took me several seconds to identify this
form of precipitation since I’d rarely seen it as a child. There was no mistake
when the first piece hit the windshield, sounding like a gunshot. We began to
pray, out loud. I wasn’t sure how the glass roof panel of my car would hold up.
The hail
picked up in speed and size as we continued to drive, scanning the horizon for
any kind of shelter. We drove for 2 full miles this way. At the rate we were
going and the rate of hailstones falling, we should’ve been hit countless
times. Yet, I can count on one hand the number of hailstones that hit my vehicle
during that stretch. Five - five pieces of ice. In my eyes we were experiencing
a miracle. I don’t know how the Lord protected us, I only know He did.
Finally, we reached a crossroads and followed a truck into a
tiny town. The hail was reaching golf-ball size. Immediately we were aware of a
deafening screech that took me only seconds to identify where I’d heard the
sound before. Twister. The tornado
siren turned its din on us, making my heart rate increase two fold. We needed
shelter and we needed it fast. My
sister pulled up to the French Camp, Mississippi post office where we dashed
inside the small cinder block building.
The postal clerk invited us into the back of the building and
showed us where she’d cleared space underneath a steel table if we needed to
hunker down there. A radio blared gospel music, frequently interrupted with
foreboding weather updates. We made nervous small-talk with the Postal Clerk
while we tried to reach family and friends to let them know where we were. When
the hail finally gave way to rain, we all trooped next door to the French Camp
Visitors Center to wait out the rest of the storm. People of all ages milled
about. Judging from the “LSU” logos emblazoned across our sweatshirts everyone
immediately surmised where we were from and that we’d been traveling the
Natchez Trace.
We were introduced to a couple of young ladies with “French
Camp Academy” nametags who began filling us in on the day’s events. Tekoa – who
is named after the hometown of the Hebrew prophet Amos – informed us that we’d
landed in a town with a population of 350 that was home to a Christian boarding
school for young people from broken homes. She and Summer told us about the
work they did with the Academy and the teenage girls they mentored. I felt a
tug on my heart, sensing they were of kindred spirit so I said, “I’m going to go
out on a limb here and assume you girls love Jesus a whole lot. Otherwise, I
don’t think you’d be doing this out here. Am I right?” Smiles spread across
their faces. They affirmed my suspicions and began openly sharing their passion
for being examples of purity to the young girls in their lives.
Tears pricked my eyes. They were speaking our language. After several minutes exchanging testimonies and stories I was overcome by the providence of being stranded in this town with these people. It was apparent with every passing moment that God planted us there for a purpose.
By the early afternoon the storms passed and sun was peeking
out. Summer and Tekoa began making plans to go back to work, preparing for a
conference that evening. It was apparent from their discussion they were
shorthanded. My sister and I looked at each other. We knew. This was why we were here. Our campsite in Northeast
Mississippi could wait. I nervously offered our services to the girls, telling
them we were available to help in whatever necessary capacity – making beds,
cleaning toilets, mopping floors, or whatever else they needed. Sure, we
sounded crazy. But I also knew with every beat of my heart that this
is where God wanted us.
So we went to work! We shared stories while we made beds and
marveled at the hand of God so obvious in each of our lives. That night Tekoa
invited us back to her apartment for dinner where we shared heartbreaks and
healing. My sister and I were both convicted and encouraged. We felt Jesus
Christ in the flesh when they offered us hot showers and put us up for the
night. The next morning we were speechless as we drove past swaths of tornado damaged trees within a mile of where we'd taken shelter. God truly protected us.
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| French Camp, MS at Sunrise |
Prior to the trip I’d been meditating on this quote by Oswald
Chambers, “Be ready for the sudden surprise visits of
God. A ready person never needs to get
ready. Think of the time we waste trying to get ready when God has called! The burning bush is a symbol of everything that surrounds the ready
soul, it is ablaze with the presence of God.” For one
day my soul was ready – ready for God to interrupt with anything. He filled that day with miracles and divine appointments. Remembering
this trip always makes me wonder; if the Lord can do so much with a ready soul surrendered
for one day, what can he do with a ready soul surrendered to Him for a
lifetime?
