The Wednesday before Helene hit Florida’s Big Bend, I drove to Florida’s east coast to meet up with old college friends. Call us crazy, but we didn’t want to miss our annual beach trip–or lose the vacay dollars we’d already spent.

Besides, we figured that being tucked away in the most northeastern part of the state would prove to be the safest place from which to watch the weather. Turns out, we were right.

Except for the shaking of storm shutters and rain throughout the night, we knew nothing of the terror that would hit those in Helene’s path during the wee hours Friday. Unlike them, we woke to blue skies and sunshine and made a day of it at Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island.

Early that same morning in Old Fort, North Carolina, daughter Sadie videoed rain streaming off the porch roof and rushing down their street. She hoped none of the falling tress that echoed around them would land on them or their neighbors. She went inside to nurse her newborn, unsuspecting that Mill Creek was rising downtown at record speed, just two blocks from their house.

Back on Amelia, we were as oblivious of mudslides and flooding as Sadie that morning. We traded news of our kids and grands, walked the beach and found seashells, did water aerobics in the condo pool that earlier held pool chairs.

Later, Sadie’s hubby, Bryan, ventured out. Fed by the Catawba River, Mill Creek was spilling into the town’s train museum by 9 am. By noon, it was rushing down Main Street, where debris and trees were piling up on the only road in from the interstate. By 2 pm, houses were sliding downtown that didn’t belong there.

Reports from NC were trickling into Fernandina, mainly from folks who posted photos on Facebook. It all felt so “out there,” except that Sadie and Bryan were “out there” in it, and Mary Anna, who was with us, had left hubby Andrew “out there” and back home in Swannanoa, NC.

What was happening to our beloved family members? With cell phone service out and texting spotty, we had no idea until early next morning when our calls got through—and the news was alarming.

In Swannanoa, the trailer park at the bottom of Mary Anna’s hill slid into oblivion as the Swannanoa River swelled and diverted itself. The pay-to-fish place next door slid right along with it.

Sadie’s voice shot both relief and panic through me, “We’re OK, Mom, but it’s sad and scary. Our house is fine, but downtown is wrecked. The National Guard is here. We have food, but no power, no internet, and the water in the line won’t last…”

We learned by news report that night what the rest of the world was finding out: the North Carolina mountains had been hardest hit. Who’d thought to be prepared there for a hurricane in Florida?

When I got up Sunday morning, I couldn’t shake the foreboding I felt as I watched the sun rise over the ocean. Just two blocks from their house…would the river keep rising? Already, a mudslide had blocked I-40 west from Old Fort to Black Mtn. Already, police had shot two looters at Ingles.

“God, send someone in with supplies for Sadie and Bryan. They need diapers, formula, clean water,” I pleaded as my heart pounded. “Better yet, send someone who will get them out and bring them home to Georgia.”

I turned to that day’s reading in The Yearly Bible, “If you fall to pieces in a crisis, there wasn’t much to you in the first place. Rescue the perishing; don’t hesitate to step in and help. If you say, ‘Hey, that’s none of my business,’ will that get you off the hook?” Proverbs 24:10-12, MSG.

An unseen hand tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you kidding, God? Are you sending me?” I opened my GPS and looked at the map. I was already on the east coast. It would only take a few hours driving to get to NC. And while my GPS showed that I-40 from the west side of the state was closed to Old Fort, the route from the east side was clear all the way from Fernandina to Sadie’s front door.

That settled it—I had to try.

I let Bryan know I was coming with supplies and that if Sadie wanted to leave, I wanted to take her. He texted back to say she and the boys would be ready. With his EMT and fireman training, he’d stay behind to help out.

My friends were flabbergasted when I told them—and so was I, to be honest. We sat down together and made a list of things to take with me and prayed. And I headed out, stopping for water, a rope, diapers and wipes, formula, and a car powered coffee pot, among other things.

Thanks to Jan, one of the beach buds, I could get a generator at Harbor Freight on the way. She’d scoured the southeast to find one as I drove, but it was still on the truck when I got there and a line was forming. Did Bryan still want it? “I’d rather you skip it,” he said when I finally reached him, “I want you in and outta here before dark–if you can get here at all.”

It was then when I learned that the only way into town wasn’t open yet–mud and trees were still covering the bridge over Mill Creek–but they were working on it, and Bryan was hopeful it would be open when I got there.

And that was when the iffiness of my quest landed. My GPS hadn’t noted a blocked bridge in Old Fort–what else was it not reporting that I might meet up with? I’d been so sure I would make it when I started out that morning; I hadn’t thought what I’d do if I couldn’t.

“God, I may be cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs and look back on this as something to be embarrassed about, but what the heck–I think you’re sending me. You make the way. I’m gonna trust you.”

From the beginning, I depended on my friends’ prayers and my GPS to guide me. So when the traffic on the interstate became a parking lot, I followed it around a roadblock on a detour through the mountains. I followed it when it lead me past another roadblock marked “locals only.” And when a yellow men working icon suddenly appeared on my phone, I googled to learn that hazardous driving was coming.

I checked in with my real GPS, “God, I need to be at Sadie’s before sunset. Is this the best way or should I turn around?” I gut checked—I’d felt giddy when I first started, and I still felt giddy despite unknown hazards. I took it as a sign and kept driving. What other choice did I have, really, except to head back to Georgia?

Once off the highway, I drove slowly. Massive trees partly blocked the road, as if the clean up crew was in too big a hurry to be tidy. The mud-line in tree leaves was 10 feet above the cars that landed cockeyed beneath them. A field of cotton lay sideways, shriveling and sighing.

I swerved around yet another roadblock, “I hope that one’s not important, God,” I said just before the road crew with chain saws and excavators came into view. Sure enough, it was right where my map had those yellow hazard icons. I was finally stopped in my tracks. Now what? I wondered.

That’s when my sister-in-law, Stacy, texted with a question about baking. I texted back to ask her to pray I’d get past this road crew. Not five minutes later, I was moving again, tossing “Thanks, y’all!” out the window, and “Thanks, God” up to heaven for another prayer answered.

It was late afternoon by then and still an hour before my ETA, assuming I could get into town once I got there. Bryan said that when I got back on the interstate, for the last several miles there’d be flashing warning signs to “Exit now.” But I should ignore them and go all the way to Old Fort, where I’d absolutely have to exit because of the mudslide.

Sure enough, once again on I-40, my phone began making the siren sound it makes when an abducted child’s reported. The alarm escorted me all the way through the National Guard checkpoint at the Old Fort exit and into town where I couldn’t believe what I saw.

Just a week before, I’d been here helping care for newborn John Thomas and Sadie, postpartum. I’d taken the older boys on a walk to the train depot and library. We’d bought gummies at Piggly Wiggly. But 7 days later, the apocalypse had roared in by river water.

Porches of two antebellum homes were turned sideways, like enormous sets of false teeth forgotten at nap time and gone wonky. Huge trees lay alongside the road with their roots exposed, as if a giant weasel had pulled them up, hunting for rodents. The excavators were silent, no doubt worn slap out.

Packed mud covered Catawba Avenue where traffic cones marked buried road lines. A guardsman in camo motioned me to stop, “What’s your business?” he asked brusquely.

“I’m here to get my daughter and her children out,” I said with my heart in my throat. I’d come so far—would I be told to turn around with my kids just half a mile now? I didn’t know. “God, please let me get to them. And let me get them all the way home.”

He motioned me on; I let out the breath I’d been holding.

And just like that, I was at the corner where I usually turn, and onto their street, and at their house. They were all standing in the yard, smiling and waving welcome. “Ma’am!” Ransom shouted. “Hi, Ma’am!” Abraham said to my knees as he hugged them. I’ve never been more relieved to see them. Tears welled and spilled on little heads.

Sadie planned to follow me, so she’d have her van to come back in eventually. Bryan siphoned gas from his truck for her before leaving, since her tank read 63 miles to empty, and who knew when we’d find any?

That’s when I noticed the sun setting. God had answered my prayer to get there before the sun set, and here I had another request so urgent, I hadn’t thought to thank him, “God, you see we need gas. Help me keep trusting.”

To avoid the devastation of I-40 W, we’d go home the long way ’round–east on I-40 and then south through Atlanta to just outside Chattanooga. With 63 miles to empty, we could make it as far as Spartanburg, but I already knew the stations there were mostly closed down. So we set our sights on the outskirts of Greenville and prayed for mercy.

It’s slow going traveling with a breast feeding infant. In the dark of that Sunday night as headlights blinded, there was one thing I saw clearly when we stopped yet again to feed John Thomas. While we all needed a bathroom and water and supper and beds, what we needed most was fuel: Sadie’s car now had 6.5 miles to empty.

To complicate things, I only had $58 in cash. All the stations we’d passed early on were out of gas, and half of those were without power. Would we find a station with gas that could also take a card? I had no idea.

Hubby was calling with more questions than I could answer about where we were and what was happening. When I thought I might lose it, which was when a well-lit station dashed my hopes by being out of gas as well as closed, which was also when Ransom fell apart because he wanted a toilet, not a tree, to pee on, I didn’t pick up. I just couldn’t.

“God, please!” I begged, and in that moment realized God might want to help me through my husband, so I called back. And wouldn’t you know? His friend’s app showed gas at the station near the Greenville airport, exactly 6.5 miles from where we sat. We didn’t know if it took cards, but $58 would surely fill up Sadie’s tank.

Turns out, it had plenty of gas and power and no lines to wait in and clean bathrooms and all the water I wanted to pay for. It was 10 pm by then, and with every restaurant closed on a Sunday night, we feasted on beef jerky and almonds and gas station chocolate.

I don’t have to tell you about all the rest of the tears and melt downs among our weary party, and I’m not talking about the kids. OK, I actually am, but I’d certainly pitched my share, too, at least on the inside where God knew. “Teach me to trust you,” I’d prayed a lot, right along with, “WTF, God? Are you paying attention?”

With filled tanks and tummies and empty bladders, we turned our sights to finding a hotel. These littles needed beds ASAP, and so did us bigs. But folks fleeing from North Carolina were finding respite in Greenville. We found no vacancies, except at a Best Western, where the beds we were given already held people. By 1 am, we finally and gratefully tucked in our tuckered boys at the airport Wyndham.

Our drive home the next day was uneventful—life goes on in a non-hurricane-recovering world—but it felt bizarre considering our last 24 hours in Crisis Town. There was plenty of gas, food, and power at every exit. It was astonishing how quickly we’d slumped into survival mode—and how eagerly we jumped out.

But for all the restored conveniences, traveling with a nursing newborn is still the slowest boat to Georgia. Add to that, two wiggly boys who didn’t want another road trip, and you’ve got the recipe for cramming a 4-hour trip into 8. But our kids were safe and fed, and home was on the horizon.

Driving there, I pondered John Thomas’ super powers. It was he who pulled me from my sandy-shored comfort zone and into the unknown. The thought of him at just three weeks of age had put me in my car only yesterday and taken me north. But he never worried. He slept and ate, trusting that his needs would be met—and they were. His mama and I made sure of it.

Jesus said his kingdom belongs to little children, and maybe it’s because they’re not trying so hard. They trust that everything will work out, even if they mess up, because Someone Who Loves Them is always watching out, Mt 19:13-15.