Proof The Bible Is True

Back in the mid-1990s, after my husband, Jack, retired, I decided to start a small business. I picked wildflowers and sold them to local florists in neighboring towns.

 

We lived in a rambling, two-story wood frame house, surrounded by farmland, about five miles from Merrill, Iowa, then our home. Almost everything I picked came from nearby. The cattails came from creek land about a quarter-mile away. I scooped fallen buckeyes by the thousands that dropped from trees in a nearby park. The yarrow came from my neighbors’ pastures. I found the mare’s tails in a swampy field about 10 miles away. I collected lotus pods from the shallows of Brown’s Lake, about 25 miles away. Sometimes my son, Terry, sent okra from his Nebraska garden. Jack and I drove our goods to market about every week or two.

 

One autumn day, Jack and I loaded the trunk and back seat of our red, 1994 Plymouth Horizon to the gills. Jack got behind the wheel and turned the ignition. Nothing. The car wouldn’t start.

 

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