The Ready Soul Part IV: Kindred Spirits

Slowly the hail receded, followed by heavy rain. We waited it out for a little while and Melody got calls from next door giving her updates on the storm. She decided to take us there when the rain became a heavy drizzle. My car was parked between the two buildings and we were relieved to see that the all glass was still intact, not even appearing to be damaged. Dazed, we stepped inside the next building, assaulted with the smell of fresh bread. People of all ages milled about. I asked where we were, if this was a bakery. Someone explained that the building had multiple purposes as a bakery, French Camp Visitors Center and I don’t remember what else. Judging from the “LSU” logos emblazoned on our sweatshirts, everyone immediately surmised where we were from and that we’d been travelling the Trace.We were introduced to a young lady named Summer whose smile and relaxed manner instantly made me feel at ease. The receptionist made a call to the Park Service Ranger to get

the status of the storm system. In the meantime we introduced ourselves to a Canadian

couple who were RV-ing down the Trace on their way to New Orleans. The receptionist got off the phone only to tell us that there was a Tornado Watch on until 6PM that evening and parts of the Trace were likely closed due to the weather. They advised that we detour to the nearest interstate (some 20 miles away) and find a place to stay before continuing our journey. The Canadian

couple liked this idea, and left as soon as the rain let up. Jordan and I stood there looking at each other, wondering what in the world to do. Our campsite in northeast Mississippi was already paid for. We didn't particularly want to detour so far off the Trace, and we were fairly certain the Bed and Breakfast in town was out of our price range. We hung around for a bit, waiting at least for the rain to stop before making a decision. In the meantime we were introduced to the locals who'd taken shelter in the Visitor Center.

A dark haired twenty-something girl took it upon herself to answer our questions about the city and it's inhabitants. She introduced herself as Tekoa (Teck-oh-uh) and I immediately commented about her unique name when she cheerily informed me, "It's the name of Hebrew town where the prophet Amos is from." I thought to myself, "Well this girls parents certainly know their bible!" In a short amount of time we learned that the little town of French Camp (pop. approx 350) is home to a Christian Academy/boarding school of sorts for children and young people from broken homes. I was intrigued, and asked Tekoa several questions about the academy and how she was involved in it. She runs the local thrift store owned by the academy. Summer joined us while we talked and slowly the Visitor Center emptied of the people who'd taken shelter there. It became apparent these girls worked together for this organization. They dropped hints about their passion for working with teen girls. I felt a tug on my spirit, sensing they were of kindred heart and mind, so I spoke up and said, "I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that 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 as they affirmed this and Tekoa started sharing openly of her passion to show the girls she works with what walking with Jesus looks like in a practical, every day setting. She spoke of how she strives to set an example for them in purity, that there is contentment in singleness. Tears pricked my eyes. She was speaking our language. We learned that Summer ran the Bed and Breakfast and oversaw the Hospitality portion of the Camp. They briefly shared their testimonies of how they ended up serving the Lord in tiny French Camp, Mississippi - a place we'd never heard of until then. Summer asked about our testimonies, and I began to cry, overcome by the providence of being stranded in this town with these people. It was becoming more apparent with every passing minute that God planted us there for a purpose. We'd asked Him to guide us and we knew we were in the very palm of His hands... but it was about to become so much sweeter...

Continued... (I know, but I assure you it gets better.)

The Ready Soul Part III: Refuge

Only moments passed before we identified the screeching noise. The tornado siren turned on its post in our direction, temporarily drowning out the sound of hail hitting every hard surface surrounding us. I’d only heard that sound on “Twister”.

Where we live the most we ever hear is a muffled voice declaring, “This is a test, and only a test” once a month. Adrenaline surged into my veins and I suddenly didn’t care about my car, or our trip, or anything but finding shelter for the two of us. I spotted the tiny post office in town – a cinder block building with only one window. The siren post was directly behind the post office and turned its din on us as I motioned frantically, yelling at Jordan to park next door under a small crepe myrtle. As soon as the car was parked the hail began to strike the glass roof with deafening blows. We grabbed our cell phones, pulled the hoods up on our sweatshirts, and dashed inside.

The postal clerk invited us inside the back room of the building and showed us where she’d cleared a space under a steel table in case the three of us needed to hunker down there. The next 15 minutes were a blur. We found out we were in French Camp, Mississippi. This was the third time that day the tornado sirens sounded. She informed us this was the first hail they'd had that day, and it was the major indicator of a tornado about to strike. We were shaking, laughing and nervously explaining where we were from and that we didn’t know what to do. The radio played gospel music in the background, interrupted frequently by weather updates and warnings to stay away from windows and find shelter, describing the damage the storm was doing and the predicted path of the tornado. Melody, the postal clerk, offered us the use of the phone to call our parents and let them know where we were in case power or phone lines went down later, leaving us unable to reach the outside world. I left a voicemail for my dad and Jordan sent text messages requesting prayer. Hail continued to pound the roof, and I had no way of knowing the damage it might be doing to my car, possibly ending any travel we would be doing for days.

Continued...

Read Part I, and Part II.

The Ready Soul Part II: He is our Shield

The Trace was beautiful. Spring was out in full force. Red clover bloomed endlessly, hugging the roadside with burgundy fur. Bright green leaves clothed the trees in fresh spring finery. The rain moved just ahead of us leaving the air damp and cool, and turning the road into a mirror of green and grey shadows. It curved in perfect time with “The Last of the Mohicans” soundtrack. At a visitor area we learned that we were following a string of severe storms causing tornados all over the area. We’d been driving with the sunroof open for over an hour, and again we marveled at our simple answered prayers.

We continued in this fashion for over 170 miles. We’d just decided on an exit 10 miles ahead to get gas when the heavy grey clouds started to drop dime-sized hail. It took us a few seconds to identify this since I was 10 years old the last time I’d seen it. Jordan remarked that it looked like manna. We knew we were in trouble when the first piece hit the windshield resounding like a gunshot. I immediately began to worry. The entire top panel of my Scion tC is glass. I closed the sunroof/moon roof covers, and started to pray. We prayed in the spirit, and with understanding. The hail at this point was pouring. We were in an unusual stretch of the Trace with no overhanging trees, no shoulder to pull off, no shelter whatsoever. Pieces of Psalms came to my mind as we prayed out loud and I just repeated them, “Lord you are our strong tower, our refuge in time of trouble, our protector, our provider, you are our shelter in the storm, you are sheltering us, you are protecting this vehicle, your angels are surrounding us, you are our shield…” over and over I prayed… wondering as the hail picked up and we continued to drive scanning the horizon for any kind of shelter. We drove for 2 full miles this way at 40mph. Mathematically speaking the faster you drive in any storm the more precipitation hits your vehicle, which is why you can turn your wipers down at a stoplight. 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 hit us. I saw hail headed straight for my windshield land softly as snow, exploding into liquid on impact, while each piece on the road was bouncing all over the place. This was nothing short of miraculous. I don’t know how the Lord protected us, but He did.

After two miles with no place to pull off, we came to a tiny Mississippi Highway crossing the Trace. We followed a truck a quarter mile into this tiny little town, with the hail still falling. As soon as we neared buildings I began looking around for some sort of mill or metal shop because I heard this eerie screeching noise that reminded me of my dad’s table saw slicing through a particularly tough piece of wood. The hail was growing larger – the size of golf balls. There was no gas station or overhanging shelter to pull my car into. Still I was praying, “Lord, help us. Protect us.”

Continued…

Read Part I Here.

The Ready Soul Part I: Adventure Begins

My little sister Jordan and I began planning this adventure weeks in advance. Our destination: Nashville – where one of our lovely sisters lives with her Army-Special-Forces-has-a-million-world-traveling-stories man. A few weeks before our spring break trip it was suggested to me that we drive up the Natchez Trace from Natchez, Mississippi to Nashville, Tennessee. It’s a 444 mile scenic federal parkway with no commercialism on it whatsoever (no gas stations, restaurants, signs, 18 wheelers, etc.) meaning it’s the perfect route to drive with the sunroof open and music blaring. Prior to the trip we were cautioned endlessly to be careful when our friends and loved ones learned we intended to camp by ourselves. They warned us of bears and snakes and raccoons, and strangers. We took their advice to heart, and promised to be supremely alert and careful. I reserved a primitive campsite in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains just off the Trace for two nights, packed up my little car, and we set off.

For some reason despite all the warnings and worries people had, peace settled over my heart before this trip. I knew we would be safe. I didn’t know how. Our only defense was common sense and a little tube of mace. Somehow I knew that Gods hand was in this.

Two hours away from home we pulled away from a Natchez gas station as rain started to pour in sheets. I couldn't see the lines on the road much less any signs, which is particularly disconcerting when you’re in a strange town being directed by GPS. We took that as our cue to start praying, asking the Lord to use us however He deemed on this trip. We asked Him to give us His eyes to see and hear Him, to speak His words, be His hands and feet. And almost as an afterthought I decided to ask that He roll away the rain clouds that Friday. I’d looked up the forecast for the route we were taking that day. It predicted showers and severe thunderstorms the entire way. But I know that my heavenly Father denies His children no good thing, so I asked for this creature comfort. Before we’d even gotten through Natchez the deluge became a misty drizzle and blue sky was peeking through the clouds. I needed no further proof that my Daddy delights in giving good gifts to His children. We soon opened the sunroof, marveling at His faithfulness. This was becoming the adventure we’d dreamed of.

We were painfully naïve of the paths set before us.

Continued tomorrow…

Read Part II, Part III, Part IV, and part V. 

Hard Earth to New Life

In all the years I’ve known Him, God has never catered to my emotions or to the demands of my flesh. He is God. He will not bow to me. But when I reflect I see that He never forsook me. His comfort was there. His healing embrace. He heard my cries as a little girl saying, “I just want Jesus.” Even when I didn’t fully understand who He was. He was there. He held me back from the edge. He stayed my hand. He fought the battle with me. I see His mark on me. I see His faithfulness and tender compassion.

But I have held myself at an arms’ length from Him for a long time. I’ve been trying to reconcile the justice and righteousness of God with his Fatherly compassion. Now I feel as though I am learning to know all over again the love of the Father. It’s a love I don’t understand – I thought I did. For God so loved me that He gave – gave His son to be rejected and despised. To bear my sorrow, iniquity, and sickness. My head spins when I think of that kind of love. Is it true? It must be – because Jesus himself said he came to bind up the broken hearted. To shepherd the lost sheep. This love is real. It is true. And I cannot reject Him.

I never thought of myself as insecure. I’ve always been annoyed with those who wear insecurity like a cloak; seeking affirmation via manipulation. But the truth is I am terribly insecure in my relationship to the Lord, as His child. And I had no idea. Over the past few months, each time the Father has spoken to me He’s affirmed me saying, “You belong to me. You are my daughter. I love you.” Over and over He’s repeated the same thing, even when it didn’t seem to fit with everything else He was saying. It was as though I needed convincing. It’s puzzled me. When I heard those words I just sort of shrugged them off with this “Yeah Lord, I know.” attitude. But He was speaking to the little girl in me who doesn’t know who she is and doesn’t know her worth. He was speaking straight to the insecurity that I didn’t even know was there.

Nevertheless, my Father is not letting me off easy. He didn’t say, “Here’s the problem, work on it.” He has joined me in this pit with a shovel and said, “Let’s dig deep. Let’s lay the axe to the root of this. We are going to bring to the light why you do this, why you think this way, why it’s broken. And I am going to heal you. You will never be the same.” And so we dig. Deep. Turning over soil that is hard and packed. I am being laid bare. The secrets of my heart are exposed. More than that – the secrets of my pain are exposed. He has prompted me to bring the lies into the light. To speak of things I’ve never dared to speak of before. When lies come to the light they lose their power. They lose their sting. And healing comes.

So a new foundation is being laid in those places where the digging has been done. The Lord is cementing my identity in Him. I am being baptized into His name – again. I almost feel as though it would be sacrilegious to say this, but I sense the Father confirming to me in my baptism, “You are my beloved daughter, with whom I am well pleased.” Those words strike a holy fear into my heart. I know that I am no longer just a slave but a son. A daughter. I am crying out “Abba, Father” like never before.

Dear Mrs. Polacco

This is a letter I recently wrote to our favorite childrens author after discovering some new books of hers. I somewhat vaguely reference the content of some of our favorite stories in the letter, so if you don't understand, you'll just have to read the books. Consider this my wholehearted endorsement of her.

Dear Mrs. Polacco,

I feel as though I’m sitting down to write an old friend instead of a stranger. You and your books have been a part of my life since I was a small child of five or six. My father – of six daughters and no sons – has a great appreciation for childrens literature. But he has exacting tastes. He never purchased a book that he wouldn’t mind reading to us over and over, judging them on their artwork as much as the story. There were few “Golden Books” on our shelves and Disney characters were banned from our literature. Still, we had two towering shelves in our bedroom filled to capacity. Many were purchased at garage sales and thrift stores – with so many mouths to feed there wasn’t much extra money.

My Poppie came across “Thundercake” at a garage sale one day and loved it for the story and the painted illustrations. There’s no doubt he purchased it for under 10 cents. He always drove a hard bargain when it came to used books. It had stray crayon marks on the hardback cover and a strangers name in the flyleaf, but it quickly became one of our favorites. Thunderstorms are a daily occurrence on summer afternoons in south Louisiana. My younger sister, Jordan, and I would sit at the big living room window listening to the thunder, counting aloud, and watching for lightning to follow to determine how far the storm was.

After we discovered “Thundercake” your books were added to our library gradually through school book fairs and catalogs. They were gifts at holidays and birthdays. My daddy made a tradition of reading to us each night as he’d done with my older sisters (we were the babies of the family). He would squeeze his 6’4” frame into one of our twin beds with a little girl on each arm and fall asleep reading to us. I don’t think I ever heard the end of “Pink and Say” until I was fifteen and finished it on my own (with tissues of course!). Poppie would fall asleep in the middle of the story without fail.

Before long our family adopted the phrase, “Such a person, such a person.” It was high praise in our minds to be endowed with that title. The “Tooth Angel” was known to write us notes that she left with our Susan B. Anthony silver dollars and I recall more than one occasion she told me I was “such a person.” That always set my little-girl-heart glowing.

Jordan and I are grown up now and sharing an apartment where “Thundercake” is a part of our personal library. My older sisters have scattered the country with their families and produced two grandchildren for my parents – more girls, of course! We are the only ones that remain close to home. Jordan is a page at the local library and was delighted to discover that you’ve written more books than we knew existed. We already own a dozen or more, but stopped collecting when we got into our teens. I’ve made my parents swear to keep and add to their childrens library to entertain grandchildren – the ones they have and the ones Jordan and I hope to give them someday.

Jordan found “The Junkyard Wonders” at the library a couple of weeks ago. She held onto it until we had occasion to visit my parents so we could read it together. The other night we all sat around while Jordan read aloud to us with her best librarians’ cadence. Her voice broke when she reached the end of the book. We were all crying – including my dear, tender-hearted Poppie. When she got to the last page she could only read haltingly, choking back sobs over the success each of you “Wonders” have achieved. You have long been our favorite childrens’ author, but you have won our affections all over again with this treasure.

After finishing “The Junkyard Wonders” we sat around recalling memories that surround your books. “Mrs. Katz and Tush” was dear to me because of my love for cats. “Rechenkas’ Eggs” stirred our mischievousness and we were known to often decorate my mothers’ eggs and place them back into the refrigerator, uncooked. We made real Thundercake for the first time at Fathers’ Day last summer, topped with fresh Louisiana strawberries. Before eating it we sat around with our friends, laughing while one of them read the book to us with a horribly botched Russian accent that sounded more like Arnold Schwarzenegger than a Babushka. Your books are the center of sweet memories indeed.

So, thank you, for memories past and the ones to come. Thank you for sharing your imagination and your heart with us. Mrs. Polacco, you are “such a person” to us and we will cherish your stories for generations to come.

With love on behalf of the Ward Family,

Rebekah Ward

He Who has Ears

Sad fact: I have a new Journal that I bought three months ago sitting virtually empty on my coffee table. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to write. Just that I’ve been a little busy. And perhaps somewhat distracted. The holidays come around and I get very wrapped up in celebrating – with people, in that moment, enjoying the company of friends and family while I am surrounded by them. The other little things fall to the background. I don’t think that’s such a bad thing, so I refuse to feel guilty for it. But it’s time to open up those blank pages and begin filling them. I want it to be different this time.

If you know me at all you know that I’m very good at talking. I can hold a conversation with the best of them. But I’m not as good at listening. I sometimes find myself in a conversation where I feel like I’m competing to be heard, instead of just listening to what someone is telling me. This year, I want to learn to listen to people’s stories. To really hear what they’re saying. And I want to stop talking so much.

Most days Jordan will get into the car and she’ll tell me about someone’s life story that she learned that day - Simply because she listened to a lonely heart. Or asked a few questions – enough to draw someone out of themselves and tell her things they wouldn’t tell most people. And she has a greater appreciation for who they are than most people do. She gets to see them beyond the surface. I want to learn to do that.

When asking us about our goals for the year my friends pointed out to me a couple of weeks ago that the physical always reflects the spiritual. And I would definitely say it’s true that I need to learn to listen to the Lord more and stop talking so much. If there’s anything He has made abundantly clear to me in the past 6 months it’s that I am more than capable of hearing from Him. I have heard God speak through me more lately than I have in years. It’s been wonderful to learn the sound of the Shepherds voice again after thinking Him silent for so long. It’s been amazing to find the words given confirmed over and over. But now it’s time to hear Him for me.

It’s time for me to quiet my heart and mind before Him and hear what He has to say to me. What He wants to change in me. What He just wants me to know. To know Him. Because I’m not really sure I know His character as well as I thought I did. So this year I’m going to hear from Him. I want to fill my new journal with things the Lord is saying to me, instead of just my thoughts about myself. I’ve grown tired of talking about me. I want to know Him more. And I’m pretty sure it’s gonna change my life.