“The Many Reasons Why I Believe in God” Series
There have been so many miracles, blessings, and signs from God in my life that it feels wrong not to share them with the rest of the world. God is always at work in our lives, even when it feels like He’s nowhere to be found and when we need Him the most. But when we experience supernatural events that defy science or even our imaginations, when we have one of those “Did that really just happen?” moments, or when someone or something saves us at just the right time, we know, even if only deep down, that God had everything to do with it.
This series is all about showing the world the amazing and miraculous events I’ve experienced and giving credit where credit is due—to God Almighty, Who knows all, sees all, and doesn’t get nearly the credit that He deserves.
I have plenty of stories to tell in this series, in no particular order, so let me start with the 1997 tornado outbreak.
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March 1, 1997 – Little Rock, Arkansas.
I had lived in Little Rock my whole life, bouncing from trailer park to trailer park and occasionally a tiny rundown house here and there. I was familiar with tornadoes, having experienced several encounters as a little girl. Once at Baseline Elementary School in about the second or third grade when I huddled, heads between our knees, in a hallway with the rest of the school as a tornado roared past; and once in Higden near Greer’s Ferry Lake, another hallway huddle, this time with family members at my grandparents’ house. There were a couple of other times, but nothing too major, certainly nothing that would scar or traumatize me or even make me care much about the dangers of tornadoes as I got older. Anyone who has grown up in Arkansas knows that it can be a risky place to live weather-wise, particularly during the springtime, but those same people will also tell you, “It’s just a tornado! Put your big-girl panties on!” Tornadoes are no big deal and nothing to be afraid of until, of course, you’re facing down one of the green-debris-cloud-breathing monsters yourself.
I left early that morning with a friend and my one-year-old daughter, searching for a new place to rent. My oldest son, who was only three then, had spent the night at his grandma’s house. As I drove down Dixon Road toward Arch Street, I looked up at the sky and felt uneasy. I paid close attention to the clouds and wondered what the weather would be like that day, which was very unusual for me. I had never thought about tornadoes, much less worried about them.
The clouds looked…strange, like typical storm clouds but with more personality; they appeared quiet and patient but callous. The air was sticky and humid and felt heavy, like a wet blanket. I knew nothing about the anatomy of tornadoes or when the air was primed for their formation—nor did I care—so it was odd how aware and uneasy I became of the approaching danger.
I heard a voice in my head that sounded like my own but felt like…something else. “You need to get off the road,” the voice said, and without hesitation, I heeded the warning. I remember telling my friend before we made it to the end of Dixon Road, “We need to go home; I don’t like how the sky looks.”
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