The year 1996 was the pits for Barbara. She had taken over the showcase business when Charlie had abandoned it. She kept hitting walls, her spirit sometimes broken to the point of barely hanging on.

“Ouch!”

She screamed out in pain one hard and depressing day, and made a desperate grab for her shirt tail. She fumbled, and the shirt, along with stomach became tangled up in the belt sander. Angrily, she yanked her shirt free and gave the sander a fling followed by the battered showcase.

She glared down at the splintered mess on the floor. It seemed to mock her.

Her arms ached. Her patience was wearing thin. Her blouse was in threads and her stomach sanded smoother than any part of the crumbled showcase lying on the floor. This showcase business looked hopeless. She was either sanding her belly or dancing the two-step trying to hold the case with one hand, and the belt sander with the other. The job always ended in a slinging match.

She had been buying lumber from her Amish friends. They had shown her how to air-dry wood, and have some always available when she needed it.
This method had worked great until recently. But now, her business had grown to such a proportion that she needed wood much faster than the Amish way could supply. Some hardwoods took a year or more of air-drying to be workable. To supplement her lack of materials, she had been buying wood from a local lumber yard. It wasn’t working. The problem? The poplar wood was lighter and softer than oak. It wouldn’t hold the weight of the sander. It danced. It was partly her fault, for she didn’t have the grip in her hands, or the know-how, to hold the light-weight wood while sanding.

Barbara was smart enough to know her body couldn’t continue to take this abuse. She had to do something. Pain pushed her. Temper pushed her. Desperation pushed her. She headed for the shower, her mind in replay. Bits and pieces of her last conversation with an Amish friend raked her thoughts feverishly. She remembered that he had said something about getting hardwood in Huntland, Tennessee. Hardwood. That’s where she was missing it! She had to get back into hardwood. Hardwood such as oak and hickory. She rashly decided she would go to Huntland.

Hurriedly, she jerked her clothes off and stepped under the spray of water. She screamed when the water struck her angry-red raw flesh. The pain refueled her senseless anger.

Five miles from her house, speeding on her way to Huntland, the imp harassing her mind asked, “Where is Huntland?”
The question began to hammer her mind.

“It’s above Pulaski,” she muttered aloud, unconvincingly. “I know it’s next to Pulaski,” she tried hard to convince herself, becoming more agitated by the moment. Taken hostage by stubbornness, she continued to drive her truck toward the small southern town located in middle Tennessee.

“Come on! Come on!” she hissed, pushing her memory frantically, no longer evading truth. Still, the contents of her conversation with the Amish man remained just out of her reach.

“Hrmph!” She flipped back into angry delusion, and mocked her fear. “Those Amish boys drive horses and buggies. It can’t be too far from Pulaski!” She thumped the steering wheel in silent rage. “I’ll find it!” Home delivery never once crossed her mind.

“What is the business name?” the imp persisted.

“W-what’s the business name?” she stammered aloud, realizing, she didn’t have the first clue! She stomped her brakes and jarred to a stop. Her lips quivered and her delusion was finally arrested.

She clutched the steering wheel oblivious to the fact she was in the middle of the road. “Barb, you are out of your mind,” she raved.

A reactor by nature, she had pulled some daring stunts in these last two years of hell. But this one took first prize, she faced the brutal truth about herself. Here, she was racing toward some unknown town; searching for some nameless business! How far out could she get? Feeling whipped, she wiped a tear.

Moments later, she glanced down to the tattered, worn, leather Bible laying on the seat beside her.

“What do I do now?” she asked her traveling companions, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. “Am I defeated?” Humility had now replaced her anger.

Her fight gone, she paid little attention when her foot slipped off the brake. The truck crept down the incline with a will of it’s own. At the bottom of Powder Mill Hill, she glanced out the window and saw the outdoor display of crafts. She braked, turned in, and parked. Why? She couldn’t have told you. She lived less than eight miles from this business, traveled by it often, yet, she couldn’t recall ever visiting the place.

Minutes passed before she made a move to open the truck door. However, when she stepped inside the craft shop, her problems were put on a back burner. She was awed by the stunning array of different craft items, and beautiful hand-made quilts.

“Can I help you?”

She turned, unaware that she was rudely staring at the tall, good-looking man. She was thinking a real frontiersman. A frontiersman that fit the elements. She hastily glanced around the inside of the high, rustic looking building. And still captured by thoughts, she turned slightly and stared out the undressed window. Tears filled her eyes as she watched the rainbow colors dancing up and down the tumbling waterfall at the beck of the sun.

She sniffed the perfume smell of the soap and candles as it permeated the air. The smell of hickory wood burning in the pot-bellied stove stirred her childhood memories. This man and his crafts were pure country. The country atmosphere, bathed and revived her as water to desert-chapped lips.

“Can I help you?” the mountain-looking man repeated, seeing he had her attention this time.
“Do you know of a place in Huntland where you can buy wood?” she asked, telling him of her relationship with the Amish.

“Tennessee Valley Wood?” he asked.

“Probably,” she murmured, praying her ignorance didn’t show, but inwardly aware that the name didn’t strike a memory.

He immediately began giving her directions. “Please, could you draw me a map,” she interrupted, and added, “I ain’t too good with this driving business and direction thing.”

He showed no arrogance and did as she asked. Not only that, he walked her through the map pointing out certain details even down to the auto parts house nearby, and cautioned her to be sure and turn above this business.

She thanked him and clutched the map in her hand. “Be sure to stay on Highway 64, and you can’t get lost,” he called out, smiling, when she turned and gave him a salute.

She found Tennessee Valley Wood that day, and some great guys as well. She is still doing business with them today.

Barbara will tell you that she believes in divine guidance. Her first meeting with Todd Yannayon was over 10 years ago. Yet, that meeting is as fresh in her mind as if it happened yesterday. And you can’t imagine her shock upon learning years later, that Todd was a former Mennonite. She believes strongly that he was hand-picked by her Heavenly Guidance to help her that day.

Todd’s last words, “Stay on Highway 64 and you can’t get lost,” were stamped on her mind that day. She followed his directions to the letter. For two whole years, she hogged the highway, weaving trailer loads of wood right smack through the middle of the adjoining town to Huntland, Tennessee. She was so focused on Highway 64 that she paid no attention to the horn blowing, and angry cursing of the impatient drivers who frantically waved her toward the alternate truck route.