My boys believe we are camping even though we are destitute
They’re still in bed. As though it were the most comfortable thing in the world, the three of them cuddled together behind that too-thin blue blanket. I watch as their tiny chests softly rise and fall as they breathe. And I pretend for a second. I act as though this is merely a break. A small excursion.
Just over the county border, we set up the tent beside a rest area. We are technically not permitted to be here. It’s quiet, though. Yesterday, I got a look from the security man that signaled he was going to leave us alone. For the time being.
I informed the lads that we would go camping. I said, “Just us guys,” as if it were a clever strategy. For example, I didn’t sell my wedding band three days ago to cover the cost of a jar of peanut butter and gas.
They’re still young enough to trust me, which is the worst part. They consider eating cereal out of paper cups and sleeping on air mattresses to be adventures. They consider me courageous. that I’ve got everything worked out.
However, what is the reality? I contact all the shelters from here to Roseville during the day. There isn’t room for a father with three children. “Perhaps Tuesday,” one person remarked. Perhaps.
Six weeks ago, their mother departed. A half-empty bottle of Advil and a letter were left on the counter by her. claimed to be heading to her sister’s. Since then, I have not heard anything.
I’m doing my hardest. I use restrooms at gas stations to wash up. I make up stories for bedtime. I tuck them in as if nothing is wrong.
However, last night… My middle kid, Micah, muttered something while he slept. “Daddy, I prefer this to the motel,” he said.
My heart broke at that very moment.
since he meant it. Additionally, I am aware that this illusion is coming to an end. This “camping trip,” this little game, won’t last long.
I’ll have to tell them what I’ve been dreading for days as soon as they wake up.
I’m about to grab the tent’s zipper when
My sons are unaware that we are homeless, but they believe we are camping.
As if it were their own tiny cocoon, the three of them are still asleep, cuddled up beneath a thin blue blanket. As I observe their gentle breathing, I briefly imagine that we are on vacation.
We pitched our tent just over the county line, behind a rest area. It’s quiet, but it’s not actually permitted. Yesterday, the security guy gave me a look that suggested he wouldn’t force us to leave just yet.
I informed the lads that we would go camping. I said, “Just the guys,” as if it were an adventure. I didn’t disclose to them that three days prior, I had sold my wedding band to cover the cost of gas and a jar of peanut butter.
They are not yet old enough to comprehend. They enjoy eating cereal out of paper cups and resting on air mattresses. They believe I have a plan and am brave.
In actuality, though, I’m searching far and wide for a shelter that can accommodate four people. Before perhaps Tuesday, none have room. Perhaps.
Six weeks ago, their mother departed, claiming to be heading to her sister’s house. She left half a bottle of Advil and a note on the counter. Since then, I have not heard from her.
I’m doing my best to hold on. I wash up in the restrooms of gas stations, make up stories to put them to sleep, and maintain the routines as if nothing is wrong.
However, my middle son Micah muttered in his sleep last night, “Daddy, I prefer this to the motel.”
I was broken by it. since he meant it. Additionally, I’m aware that this may be the final time I can act like it’s only a game.
I’ll have to tell them something I’ve been avoiding when they wake up.
Micah whispered, “Daddy, can we go see the ducks again?” while I was opening the tent.
I said that when his brothers were prepared, we would.
The grass was already getting warmed by the sun after we had finished packing and cleaned our teeth in the sink behind the building. Caleb, the oldest, flung rocks and inquired if we would go hiking, while Toby, the youngest, held my hand while humming.
A woman came up just as I was ready to tell them we couldn’t remain. She was in her seventies, carrying a large thermos and a paper bag, and she was dressed in an old plaid shirt.
I was worried that she might urge us to go, or worse, give us a pitying look.
However, she held out the bag with a smile. “Good morning, guys. Would anyone like to have breakfast?”
Before I could speak, the children glowed. Hard-boiled eggs and warm cookies are inside the bag. There’s hot chocolate in the thermos. For them, chocolate, not coffee.
She joined us in sitting on the curb and introduced herself as Jean. “I’ve seen you here a couple of times.”
I was at a loss for words. She offered no sympathy, but I didn’t want any. Just goodwill.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “I’ve had difficult times too.” No, I’m not camping. Back in 1999, my daughter and I spent two months sleeping in a church van.
I blinked. “Really?”
Indeed. People didn’t pay attention to us. I vowed never to do the same thing again.
I’m not sure why, but I was honest with her. About their mother, the shelters that say “maybe,” and the motel
She simply listened while gently nodding.
Then she made an unexpected statement: “Come with me. I am familiar with a location.
I paused. “A refuge?”
“No, better.”
We drove down a gravel lane after her ancient automobile. I had a racing heart. The boys didn’t realize we were on the verge of a miracle when they laughed at one of Toby’s jokes.
We arrived at a property with goats in the yard, a small white house, and a large red barn. The Second Wind Project was written on a sign.
Jean described it from the porch: a volunteer-run community that provides crisis-affected families with short-term lodging. No red tape. No forms. Just people assisting people.
She assured them that she would provide them with food, shelter, and time to recover.
I took a deep breath. “What’s the catch?”
“None,” she replied. “Just lend a hand a bit. Clean, feed the animals, and if you can, construct something.
We slept in actual beds that night. We were all four in a room with walls, light, and a softly humming fan.
I sobbed like a child as I sat on the floor after tucking the boys in.
I fixed a fence, chopped wood, and learned how to milk a goat the following week. Another family, a single mother and her twin girls, became friends with the children. They learned to say “thank you” at every meal, gathered wild fruit, and chased chickens.
“How did you find this place?” I asked Jean one evening as we sat on the porch.
She grinned. “I couldn’t find it. I constructed it. I worked as a nurse. I inherited this land from my grandmother. I didn’t want to be a memory; I wanted to be a light.
I remembered what she said.
Two weeks stretched into a month. I was given a menial job at a garage. I was offered regular hours and a salary by a man named Frank.
We continued to stay for six weeks. After that, I managed to rent a modest duplex. At night, the pipes rattled and the floor tilted, but it was home.
The lads never inquired as to why we slept in a tent or left the motel. They referred to it as “the adventure.” Micah continues to tell others that we lived on a farm and constructed a fence while goats kept an eye on us.
I discovered an envelope beneath the doormat three months after we moved in. Just a scrawled “Thank you,” with no name.
There is an old picture of Jean holding a baby in front of the barn when she was younger, along with the words, “What you gave my mother, she gives back to you.” When you can, give back.
Jean didn’t answer. The farm was deserted. A fresh sign read, “Now rest.” Assist another person.
So I did. I offered our tent to a homeless man, mended a leaking faucet, and went shopping for an elderly neighbor.
A terrified man with two children knocked on our door one evening. I might know a spot, someone at the food bank had remarked.
I didn’t think twice.
I prepared hot chocolate.
In our living room, I allowed them to sleep.
A new chapter began at that point.
Frank agreed to give him the same job that he gave me after we chatted. I got them clothes, shoes, and furnishings.
Our home gradually turned into a second chance for other people.
I believed the end was at rock bottom.
I now realize that it’s just the beginning for some.
We didn’t camp.
We lost everything, yet we gained more than I could have ever dreamed.
Additionally, Micah continues to whisper, “Daddy, I like this better,” when I snuggle my boys in each night.
Son, I agree. I agree.
The lowest areas might occasionally offer opportunities for growth.
