Proof The Bible Is True

I awoke, startled. Who were these people crowded in my bedroom? What were they doing there?

 

“Lois.” It was my mother, hovering anxiously near my bed. “It’s a flash flood,” she said. “The kitchen has already flooded.” She was holding a box of soda crackers—what I’d later learn was the only thing she’d managed to grab in her rush to escape the rising water.

 

June 4, 1940. I was 12 years old. It had started raining earlier that day, a sudden and unrelenting downpour on our little town of Homer, Nebraska. By that afternoon, our basement had flooded, spoiling the canned applesauce, pickles and chokecherry jelly we stored there. It had happened once or twice before, so we weren’t overly concerned. We hoped that would be it. But that was just the beginning.

 

My mother explained what had happened. As I’d slept, the nearby creek had overflowed. A wall of water had rushed down our street, leaving no time for anyone to get to higher ground. As the only two-story house in the neighborhood, ours was the best place to seek refuge.

 

The electricity had short-circuited, so all we could do was sit in the dark and wait. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim room. I made out the faces huddled around me. My mother, father and 10-year-old brother, Paul. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly were also there, with their two young boys, Billy and Bobby. They’d just rented the small house next door. The boys were frightened, crying. So was Mrs. Kelly. “Everything’s gone,” she gasped. “Everything.”

 

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