They’re still asleep—my three boys—huddled under a thin blue blanket behind a rest stop. I told them we were on a camping trip, “just us guys,” to hide the truth: their mom left weeks ago, the motel money’s gone, and every shelter I’ve called says “maybe next week.”

They’re too young to know we’re homeless. They think this is an adventure. Last night, my middle one, Micah, mumbled in his sleep, “Daddy, I like this better than the motel.” It nearly broke me.

I was about to tell them we couldn’t stay another night when an older woman, Jean, approached with biscuits and hot cocoa. She said she’d been where we are, and offered something I never expected: a place to stay.

We followed her to a small farm called The Second Wind Project—a community for families in crisis. No red tape, just shelter, kindness, and work. We stayed. I chopped wood, fixed fences, the boys laughed and played. Slowly, I found odd jobs, then a steady one, and eventually, we moved into a tiny rented house.

Months later, I found an anonymous note reminding me to “pay it forward.” And I did—offering help to others the way Jean helped us. That simple act became the start of something new.

We weren’t really camping. But in losing everything, we found a second chance—and a new way to live