Coming Home to Dixie

As we drove around a bend on that narrow Mississippi road—dark and winding—a semi truck came barreling toward us on the opposite side. It was so close it pushed us off the road. My phone rang immediately.

“Are you okay? That truck nearly tipped us over!” Jim’s voice was sharp with adrenaline.

My heart thudded in my chest as I looked in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, we’re okay,” I said quickly, “but Blue’s cage nearly tipped over.”

I glanced back again. Somehow, our little parakeet, Blue, seemed unfazed. In fact, she was swinging gently, eyes bright, as if the sudden jolt had been a little thrill. She always did like it when I pushed her swing. Tonight, it seemed she got a push from a passing truck.

We were down to the final two and a half hours of our journey—a journey that had stretched across five exhausting, breakdown-ridden days. We had just crossed into Mississippi on a creepy, suspended bridge that swayed under our tires. Everything was pitch black. The air hung thick and eerie, and the faint strains of banjo music played in our minds, conjuring a setting fit for a suspense film.

Jim’s truck lights were weak, barely cutting through the Southern night. I maneuvered my vehicle just behind and to the left of his, turning on my brights to help guide him through the winding roads. Our nerves were shot, and the hour was cruel. We had started the day at 5:30 a.m. in Oklahoma and had driven nonstop through Arkansas. We talked briefly about stopping again for the night, but at that point, the need to be done outweighed our exhaustion.

The movers were set to arrive at 8 a.m. sharp, and the trailer rental company had someone scheduled to retrieve the trailer shortly after. All we wanted was to sleep in our own beds—or at least, under our own roof.

I decided we needed a morale boost. Something to bring warmth back into the car, to fight the tension that had slowly crept in over the last few hours. I reached for a game I had created a while back during dinner: Praises.

Every thirty minutes, I called Siena, who was riding with Jim, and had the whole car on speaker. We’d each pick someone and several minutes sharing all the things we appreciated about them during this road trip. Roslynn squirmed with excitement, a big smile stretched across her face as she waited to hear what kind words would be spoken about her. After so many hours of stress, short tempers, and tough moments, it was like a balm to the soul—reminding us that we had done this together.

The final hour of our journey had one last twist. Siena and I needed a restroom badly, so we stopped at a lonely truck stop gas station. The place was nearly empty except for a few male truckers, and I was instantly on alert. We stuck close together and headed to the women’s restroom. Just as we were washing our hands, we heard loud voices right outside the door—speaking a language we didn’t recognize, and growing louder by the second.

My heart pounded. I was ready to fight.

Just then it flew open and a man burst in.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Get out!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the small tiled space.

To our relief, he did. We would later guess he may have been a worker with special needs who didn’t quite understand, but in the moment it was terrifying.

We practically ran out of there and back to the safety of our cars.

Soon the road opened up—wider lanes, better lighting—and we could finally breathe again. At 3:30 a.m., we pulled into the long driveway of our new home.

The girls hadn’t seen the house in person yet, and they ran from room to room with giddy joy despite the hour. We had no furniture yet—just sleeping bags—but that didn’t matter. The floor was ours. The walls were ours. It was home.

There was no time for real sleep. The movers were due in just a few hours.

By 7:30 a.m., all three of us—Jim, Siena, and I—felt physically sick from the fatigue. (Roslynn, being so little, was fortunately able to rest on the journey). My legs had swelled so much from the drive they looked like the Michelin Man’s. My sandals barely fit over my feet. But we pressed on. We were on empty—emotionally, physically, spiritually. Still, we were here.

With no food or drink in the house, I grabbed Roslynn and made a run to the gas station across the road. It’s the only thing nearby. I raided the shelves for donuts, Gatorades, bottled coffees, and snacks—anything to fuel us and show the movers a little Southern hospitality.

As I handed out drinks and watched boxes disappear into the house, I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me.

We had made it.

Despite the breakdowns. Despite the trailer tire. Despite the sleepless nights, the tension, and the unexpected man in the women’s restroom. Despite all the odds, we made it. We made it home.

To Dixie.