As we drove north, eyes wide for anything that might resemble a barn, a welcome, a home opened, a meal offered—just as the Voice had whispered—we were optimistic. The wilderness school was still ahead, and I kept expecting to see our provided shelter shining like a beacon, the way I had seen it in my mind. But no beam of any kind of light pointed the way.
The road seemed to shine in one direction, so we followed that light—until darkness fell and it led us in our first official circle. We finally stopped at a small-town church parking lot to pray. The Jeep’s top was open, and the sky was airbrushed with stars—thicker than anything we’d ever seen. In the quiet, the Voice nudged my daughter: “Let’s get this party started.”
The message rekindled our hope. We drove into the next town square—dark, still, with only one cafe lit up. Inside the cafe, a group of women about my age laughed around a table. “Look—it’s the party!” my son said.
Without cell service, these strangers were our only chance at directions, so we parked, crossed the street, and knocked. One woman opened the door, surprised but kind. She gave me the names of two local inns and scribbled the addresses down so I could type them straight into GPS. It wasn’t the glowing welcome I had imagined—just a book club on a weeknight—but it was enough to keep us from wandering in circles.
That brief moment of connection felt holy in its own small way. My first conversation with another adult since leaving home wasn’t rescue or revelation, but light in the dark—a reminder that even ordinary kindness is a form of shelter.
That night we fell asleep quickly in a clean, safe hotel room.
The next day we wandered again, scanning for signs—for the grandmother or auntie who might wave us into her driveway and tell us we were home. We didn’t find her. We did find miles of quiet road and a little park by a river to play in.
Sans auntie/grandma and with nightfall creeping up again, we stopped at McDonald’s for a dinner of comfort food and free Wi-Fi. I found one last room available in a nearby town.
When we arrived, someone was being arrested in the parking lot. The daylight photos online had made the place look quaint, but after a long day of driving with no clear direction, I was exhausted and skeptical. It didn’t feel divine. It felt human—dirty and tired—like me. Still, as I lay down beside my kids, a peaceful warmth filled the room, quiet and unmistakable.
It wasn’t the shelter I had pictured, but it was the shelter we were given. It was safe, and it was enough.
That night, while the kids slept, I lay awake listening. Out here, away from the noise and comfort of our old life, I had expected the Voice to be louder. Instead, there was silence. Doubt crept in. Had I misunderstood the call? Failed to obey enough to keep the Voice with me?
Through tired tears, I prayed for clarity, but all I heard was stillness. I remembered how provision had always worked in my life—it had never fallen from the sky without my hands being part of it. I had always been called to do the next right thing, and the next, until things unfolded.
I opened Airbnb, and there it was: a tiny off-grid cabin surrounded by trees, with the wood stove and bunk beds I had seen in vision. I booked it for two nights—just until the wilderness camp would begin. Having a plan for the morning brought enough peace for me to close my eyes.
Realizing that the Presence and I had to work together changed everything. I still trusted His voice. I still knew I was loved and seen. But my heart was raw—the kind of raw that makes you either brave or broken. I could choose broken and go home. I chose brave.
The cabin was small and safe. It wasn’t the “warm welcome” I imagined, but it kept us warm and dry. Being off-grid was new for all of us- a fun kind of new. We cooked potatoes in foil over the firepit, showered outside, went to bed with the sun to avoid meeting any bears after dark. We made up songs as we fell asleep. Our bodies began to sync with nature’s clock.
Our next shelter was a tent at the wilderness school. We kept going to bed at dark and waking up with the sun. I felt more connected to creation than ever—my hands blackened from cooking on a tiny solo stove, my sandaled feet initiated into the tribe of dirt. The ground no longer felt foreign; it felt like it was remembering us.
Since that night, we have stayed in many kinds of shelter—cabins, converted barns, church-basement lofts, houses that weren’t ours but held us like old friends. Not every place has felt safe at first. Some smell strange. Some have dishes to wash before using, showers to clean before stepping in, nights where I fall asleep listening for sounds I don’t recognize. But even there, after the fear and the scrubbing and the settling, peace always comes.
Each roof has carried the same lesson: safety isn’t found in walls, but in Presence.
Before we left, I saw a feather drifting over us—an angel’s wing, I thought—offering covering and peace. I’ve felt that same protection ever since, wherever we go.
Now, sitting here in our thirteenth shelter since leaving home, I don’t doubt anymore that we’ll always have a place to land.
To be continued.
Peace to you,
-Selaiah