January – February 2005
My winter vacation to South Carolina was relaxing—a welcome change from the quiet hills of Marion County. The South was congested and metropolitan, full of life and energy, a sharp contrast to the post-industrial stillness of home. It felt good to be surrounded by people and movement again. I got to visit the place I used to live and reconnect with the friends and family I missed. Even though we’d all stayed in touch, being together in person made it feel like I had never left.
We spent most of our time eating out, revisiting our favorite restaurants. Zaxby’s was always at the top of my list—a simple place that exists purely to sell fried chicken fingers. Their Zax Sauce is unmatched, and their soda fountain offers every color of Fanta imaginable. Between meals, I met up with my friend Courtland. We spent hours talking about apologetics, specifically Ravi Zacharias and his thoughtful approach to faith. He tackled questions like, “If God is so good, why do people suffer?” with both intellect and compassion, blending logic, storytelling, and empathy. I admired how his answers never minimized pain but instead found meaning in it. Those conversations stuck with me more than I realized—they were about finding faith amid suffering, an idea that would come back to me.
Courtland and I also shared a love for football. It was bowl season, which meant a steady stream of games to be wrong about. We watched, debated, and laughed, enjoying the comfort of old rhythms. I also spent time with my aunt and uncle, staying with them on New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t feeling well that night and drifted in and out of sleep on the couch as the ball dropped on TV. Later, I drove to Atlanta to visit my uncle and cousin. Our favorite pastime was heading to the Mall of Georgia and catching a movie. That year, we saw The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. We were both big Wes Anderson fans. What I love about his films is that everyone laughs at something different—his humor finds people where they are. After the movie, we ate Zaxby’s again, a small ritual that tied each visit together.
By early January, I was back in West Virginia. South Ridge Church had just moved from the Marriott to the YWCA—a change that felt significant. It meant we had officially launched as a congregation. The new space was a giant reception hall with concrete floors and open air. My dad was part of the setup team, and I loved seeing him involved. Every Sunday morning, we arrived early to clean up after wedding receptions from the night before. The floors were often sticky with spilled beer, and we’d have to mop before setting up chairs. It was hard work, but symbolic: the mess left behind reminded me of how Christ cleans up our lives once we follow Him. The move from the comfort of the Marriott to the raw openness of the YWCA felt like a metaphor for transition.
After a few weeks of normal rhythm, my parents scheduled a trip to visit my brother and his wife in Boise, Idaho. They planned to leave the morning after the peace bond hearing. I would be on the farm alone. At first, I worried that our troublesome neighbor might take advantage of their absence, but the forecast shifted my focus—a major snowstorm was on its way.
They left on January 28th, driving their 2003 Ford Explorer to the Pittsburgh airport. I stayed behind with my 2002 Ford Focus. In hindsight, we should have swapped vehicles, but I was too focused on stocking up for the storm. I went into town for groceries—meat, canned goods, pop tarts, and cheezie poofs—comfort food just in case the power went out. By the time my parents were boarding their flight, freezing rain had started to fall at the farm. The wind picked up, rattling the tin roof as I got the animals settled in for the night. I watched the rain turn to snow.
It snowed for two full days. The temperature hovered in the mid-30s, cold enough for accumulation but not bitter. The storm began with ice pellets, then turned to a fine dust that made it hard to see more than ten feet ahead, and finally gave way to large flakes falling straight down in silence. By the end, about a foot and a half blanketed the property. When the sun came out the next morning, the temperature dropped into the teens. The snow crusted over, hard and reflective, sparkling like glass in the light. My boots crunched with each step as I walked the paths to feed the animals. The ducks didn’t seem to mind the cold. The geese complained loudly, flapping their wings and honking before marching back into the Hilton. Maxwell and Sonny stayed warm in the wash house, and the cats curled up inside with me.
That day, I was supposed to work a shift at Cracker Barrel. I started up the tractor to clear the driveway. It roared to life easily and cut through the snow with no trouble—until I noticed I was leaning left. One of the big rear tires had gone flat. I didn’t know how to fix something that size, so I parked the tractor back in the barn and called work to say I was snowed in. The Focus wasn’t going anywhere.
Back in the house, I noticed it wasn’t warming up. The air felt heavy and still. The thermostat read sixty-two degrees. I checked the HVAC system and realized the gas line had frozen. My stomach sank. I remembered the gas company representative showing me how to reset it months earlier, but not clearly enough. Panic crept in. If I couldn’t get the gas flowing again, the house could freeze. My dad always knew what to do in situations like this. I wished I had paid more attention.
The well sat halfway up the hill on the southwest side of the property, buried in the snow. The cold bit through my gloves as I trudged out to it. The mechanism was covered in ice, frozen solid. I chipped at it with my hands, breaking it loose enough to move the lever. I tried the reset sequence again and again, my fingers stiff and numb. After several failed attempts—and one close call where a part snapped back and nearly crushed my hand—the gas finally kicked on. I could hear it hiss through the line, a sound more comforting than any prayer I’d said that day. By the time I made it back to the house, I could barely feel my hands. I stood over a vent for what felt like forever, waiting for the first wave of warmth.
That night, the farm was silent. The television played in the background, a small comfort against the isolation. Outside, the air was perfectly still. The only sounds were the faint clucks of ducks and the low grumbles of the geese. I thought about the blizzard of ’78 when I was a kid in Lorain County—how my parents kept us safe and warm. Now I was the one responsible, and the distance between suburb and farm had never felt wider. Civilization was only twenty minutes away, but I might as well have been in another world.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of heavy trucks on the right of way. The logging crew my dad had hired had returned to collect their final load. I ran outside to greet them, thrilled just to see people again. When I told them about the flat tractor tire and the frozen gas line, they laughed, and I laughed too. It broke the tension, the absurdity of rural life sinking in. What had felt like disaster yesterday now seemed like a good story.
When my parents returned, I met them at Cracker Barrel. I’d told them about my adventure over the phone, but they wanted to hear it in person. My Focus could finally make it off the farm, though not back up—the road was still too slick. I parked it at the Four States Post Office and rode up with them. Once the tractor tire was fixed, we cleared the road completely.
Through everything, the neighbor never appeared. No confrontations, no problems—just snow, silence, and small victories.
Looking back, I realize that trip to South Carolina and the days snowed in on the farm were two ends of the same thread. One was full of warmth, connection, and noise; the other, silence, isolation, and cold. But both reminded me of the same truth—that faith, like warmth, isn’t dependent on circumstances. Whether in the hum of a crowded restaurant or the stillness of a frozen field, God’s presence remained steady.