God’s Pocket of Safety

By Patty Neff

            In 2004, I started working as a field inspector for a local property inspection company.  One of the inspection company’s clients was a national insurance company that insured only manufactured housing.  After the spring storms in 2005, this insurer started aggressively evaluating all of their insured properties in Florida, and assignments came to me.  The job was simple…locate the property, ask a few questions, measure walls and make a sketch, take a few pictures, and note any dangerous pets or trampolines.  Most of the homeowners were kind and decent, and more than willing to cooperate with the company.

            Looking back over 3 years of inspections.  One encounter really stands out.  In late 2005, I planned a day trip to the Sebastian/Vero Beach area.  I easily located the first manufactured housing community.  In it I found all but one or two street signs were intact, and the homes close to the entrance looked normal.  As I went further, I noticed random signs of damage and repairs, but nothing shocking.

I drove to where I thought I would find my first inspection, but the house numbers didn’t seem continuous.  I asked a man sitting in his driveway for help.  He pointed west to the cleared slab a few lots away where his previous home had sat. His voice betrayed impatience when he talked about the white FEMA trailer that was his temporary home pending an insurance settlement.  As it turned out, the address I needed was just down the street, so I thanked him and headed to the next block. 

            Pulling up in front of the property, I found an older doublewide trailer that was clean and modestly maintained.   I knocked at the door and a white-haired lady in a housecoat answered.  When I introduced myself, she seemed ready to send me away.  Fortunately, her adult daughter appeared behind her, and as I presented my agenda, they relaxed and we chatted comfortably.  The older woman apologized for her attire and hesitant greeting, explaining that she was a hospice nurse, exhausted after spending the night with a dying patient.  As she spoke, I noticed a peaceful calm about her.  Listening to her, my eyes were drawn over her daughter’s shoulder to a piece of loose-leaf paper taped to the wall behind her.  In block letters, hand-written in black crayon was this note:

                        DEAR GOD,

                        PLEASE PROTECT

                        AND SAVE

                        OUR HOME.

I smiled and commented,  “I like your sign.”  Now, in my travels I had seen many house blessings at front doors; but unlike the flowery, framed ones that I usually saw, this one had a rustic simplicity, like a child’s artwork proudly displayed. 

            The women began to share their story.  They told how they had willingly complied with the storm evacuation order.  But as they were leaving, they had hurriedly written and posted the prayer for protection at the front door before they locked up and drove away.  When they returned after the storm, they found their street had been hit particularly hard, with trees down and roofs and carports ripped off everywhere.  “In fact,” said the older woman, “our house was just about the only one right around here that was still livable.  Oh, we had some minor damage—a couple of screens, a few branches, and a dented downspout, but overall we made out OK.  We keep the sign up because we know that God looked out for us.” 

            I finished the interview and thanked them for their time.  As I walked around their home seeking a good vantage point to take a picture of the house, I looked around, and it suddenly struck me-- there was not a single intact original home adjacent to their lot.  Every bordering lot on both sides, behind, and even across the street had either, a vacant slab, a shiny new double-wide, or a white FEMA trailer, and all the lots were stripped bare of mature vegetation.  In stark contrast, the women’s house sat there, somewhat weathered, but whole. A medium size tree shading their carport bowed gently to the southerly morning breeze.  It was as though there had truly been a protective shield over their home that spared them from the destructive forces that encircled their lot.

            I was humbled and encouraged by these women’s faith, and very grateful for their witnessing to me that day.  I stood in the warm Florida sunshine in this pocket of safety, contemplating the home that had been spared, and feeling the powerful presence of a wonderful God who hears (and apparently reads!) the prayers of his faithful people, and answers them.