There’s magic in a Midwestern thunderstorm, the kind that sweeps in without warning, darkening the skies over the wide, flat expanse of the heartland. It’s a force both familiar and awe-inspiring, one that stirs the senses and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up as if the very air itself is alive. The storm announces its arrival with a distant rumble, the sound of thunder, low and deep, like the earth itself is growling. The sky, heavy with clouds, hangs low over the land, pressing down with an ominous weight that makes everything feel smaller, as if the storm could swallow the whole world in a single bite. 

Then, in a moment, it begins—the first crack of thunder, distant and low, rumbling like a conversation too far away to hear clearly. The hair on the back of your neck stands up in response. There's something primal in that sound, something that reminds you how small you are. The smell of the air shifts, the clean scent of ozone mingling with the rich, fertile aroma of the fallow earth. It’s a smell that speaks of life and death, of things grown and things returned to the soil.

The smell of the air shifts, the clean scent of ozone
mingling with the rich, fertile aroma of the fallow earth.

The first drops of rain fall warm and fat, hitting the ground with a sound that is both gentle and insistent. It’s a soft tap at first, but it builds, like fingers drumming a rhythm that the earth knows well. Soon, the rain comes in earnest, and with it, the sound of a million tiny impacts on tin roofs and the leaves of the trees. The rhythm of the rain is hypnotic, soothing, washing away the dust, soaking into the soil. You can feel it under your skin, the way it calms you even as it swells the rivers and fills the creeks.

And then the lightning begins. It tears across the sky, bright and jagged, illuminating the world for brief, blinding moments. It’s not the soft flicker of distant storms, but the raw, searing kind that cracks the night wide open. The sky glows, pulses, and then goes dark again, leaving you waiting for the next flash. In that waiting, there’s a kind of exhilaration, the anticipation of the next moment of brilliance.

Thunder follows the lightning, like the voice of something ancient and powerful. It shakes the ground, rattles the windows, and reverberates in your chest. And yet, for all its might, it’s not unsettling. It’s comforting, in a way that only something so vast and uncontrollable can be. It’s a reminder that there are forces in the world greater than yourself, forces that move without your permission or your understanding.

And then, there’s the rain. The rain that never seems to stop, drumming its song on the roof, the sound like a lullaby from the heavens. It’s seductive in its rhythm, pulling you into a state of quiet contemplation. You lie there, listening, letting the storm wash over you, until you drift off to the sound of it all—the rain, the thunder, the breathing earth. 

In the heart of the Midwest, a thunderstorm is more than just weather. It’s a kind of communion, a meeting of sky and soil, of sound and silence, of power and peace. It’s something you don’t just experience; you feel it, deep in your bones. And when it passes, the world feels new again, as if the storm has washed away not just the dust, but something deeper, something hidden. 

There’s a strange bond between a man and his machine, especially when that machine is as old and temperamental as Josie, my 1982 VW Vanagon. She’s not just metal and moving parts; she’s a companion, one who carries with her the quirks and mysteries of time. Machines like Josie don’t simply break down—they communicate, albeit in roundabout and sometimes baffling ways. The longer you live with them, the more you start to understand their language, even if that understanding comes slowly, through moments of frustration and confusion.

It started innocently enough. I was at a stop, foot on the clutch, and without warning, the windshield wipers turned themselves on, slicing across the glass in the bright sunlight. No rain, not a cloud in the sky—just Josie, deciding that the day needed a little more movement. It wasn’t just a fluke, either. A few bumps in the road later, and the wipers were back at it, this time refusing to quit for the next 13 miles, no matter what I did. It was like she was playing a joke, reminding me that, despite my best efforts to keep her in working order, she had a mind of her own.

I’ll admit, I was baffled. The wipers had no business doing what they did, and I had no earthly clue why. So, I did what any sensible man would do: I called Steve. Steve knows Josie’s breed well—he’s got an ‘82 VW van himself. When I explained the problem, Steve didn’t have a definite answer. But in the way that only another Vanagon owner could, he suggested I check under the dash, near where the clutch entered the cab, for any loose wires. I had no idea what I was looking for, but when a man suggests something, you take it seriously.

Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

Armed with a halogen flashlight, I twisted my body in ways that would make a yogi proud and peered up under the dash. And here’s where things took an unexpected turn. I wasn’t even looking in the right spot, but my eye caught something out of place—the base of the steering wheel was wet. It didn’t make sense at first, until I realized that it wasn’t water—it was brake fluid. Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

On further inspection, I found that the brake fluid reservoir was nearly empty, barely hanging above the “MIN” line. Had it dropped any further, I’d have been in danger of driving without brakes. Josie’s wiper freak-out had drawn my attention to a life-threatening problem I hadn’t even known existed. It was as if she knew.

Now, a skeptic might call it coincidence. But anyone who’s spent time with an old machine like Josie knows that these things happen too often to be purely random. Machines, especially ones that have seen as much road as Josie, seem to develop a soul of sorts. They have their ways of telling you when something’s wrong, though they may do it indirectly. They’ll throw a tantrum, like Josie’s wipers, when they want attention. And, just as often, they’ll lead you to discover something you wouldn’t have found on your own.

I filled up the brake fluid reservoir that day and gave Josie a pat on the dash, a silent thanks for watching out for me in her own way. If not for her erratic behavior, I might have never thought to check the brake fluid, and who knows what kind of trouble I would’ve been in then. It’s a strange thing, this relationship between man and machine. We like to think we’re the masters, that we’re in control, but there are moments when the machine reminds us that it, too, has a voice—and that sometimes, we’d do well to listen.                   

The road was long, and the sky hung low, heavy with clouds that seemed to press the earth flat. Out in the countryside, where the hum of the city’s machinery fades and the air grows thick with the smell of damp soil and hay, I found myself rolling into a town I’d never heard of, searching for the heart of something I couldn’t yet name. A place called "Poppy's Coffee, Tea, and Remedies" sat just off the road, tucked into a row of small time establishments located in downtown” Gallipolis, Ohio. It’s hand-painted modest sign beamed out an inviting vibe to all wanderers, wayfarers, and souls who’ve lost their way.

As I opened the ancient door, I passed a faded, non-descript sign in a front corner of the plate glass window that said, “Food Pantry inside for Children and Homeless." Just come in and ask.” I paid scant notice and filed it into the miscellaneous file of my brain. 

Inside the subdued lighting, wooden floors offered a cozy, homey atmosphere. I sat down at a corner table, pulled out my laptop, and was just getting ready to work when Gregg "Poppy" Hill appeared at my table to take my order. Greg is a bit of an imposing figure. His height soaks up all the oxygen in your immediate space; his hands thickened from years of labor.  His full, shaggy beard a few years away from a full Santa Claus. Any imposing feeling of his physical presence is immediately offset by a pair of brown, soulful eyes and his slow, deliberate manner of speech. His face carries the weathered lines of a man who had known hardship and, more importantly, overcome it. The shop had a glow about it, not from the lamps or the warm steam curling out of coffee mugs, but from something deeper—something that felt rooted in the soil of this little Ohio town.

Within the first hour of sitting in the place, no less than four people came in looking for some kind of handout, free food (not from the pantry), free coffee, or both. Each request was met with an upbeat, warm, and inviting greeting—the kind that passes for everyday faire in small towns. And that's when I knew there was more behind this coffee shop than its bookshelf full of homeopathic remedies. I knew I had to know more about this place serving as an unassuming front for something much bigger than first met the eye. 

It was a better story than I could have imagined...

You see, it wasn't long ago that Greg and his wife, Lori, stood at the helm of something most wouldn’t associate with virtue. They ran the largest porn and head shop in town—a place that carried the dark, seedy secrets of men and women looking to fill the empty hours. But that was years ago. Life, they’d tell you, takes unexpected turns, and sometimes you find salvation in the places you least expect. Almost overnight, they found a faith that turned their lives completely around. They sold out of the incredibly lucrative porn trade and took over a struggling coffee shop. They set up the food pantry in a small 8x10 room that doubled as their office. Then something incredible started happening. Food donations came flooding into the shop, quickly overflowing their small pantry. Extra space was acquired next door when they moved into the space abandoned by some long forgotten business. It was then they decided to start Court Street Ministries.  

Their ministry started small—so small, in fact, it was nothing but an 8x10 room where they handed out a few meals to the hungry. A table, a few chairs, and a mission. But if you ask Greg, it wasn’t just them who made it grow into what it is today. “It’s the Good Lord’s doing,” he’d say, eyes glistening with the kind of faith that feels more like a foundation than a crutch. “We’re just here to serve.”

And serve they do. What started as a modest effort has grown into the largest food bank in town, three buildings spanning the width of their vision—more than 300 mouths fed every Thursday, the lines outside waiting for the warmth of a meal and the kindness that comes with it. Inside those walls, you don’t see the stained hands of charity, but the open hands of generosity. And it’s Lori who keeps the engine running, a one-woman dynamo who, alongside Greg, manages not just Court St. Ministries but also the cozy little coffee shop that has become a sanctuary for the town’s wanderers. And somehow she finds time to volunteer at the local Lion's Club and Rotary Club. 

Lori is the kind of woman you meet once in a lifetime. Tireless and resolute, she moves through the coffee shop with the surety of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and why. She’s quick to give, but she’s no pushover. There’s a balance in her heart—an understanding that while charity must flow freely, it must also inspire those who receive it to give back. I watched as she gently admonished one long-time “patron” of the coffee shop—a man who had taken from the kindness of others long enough.

“It’s time to start giving back,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Be here Thursday. We need help feeding those folks, and you’re gonna be part of the crew.”

Her words were not a command, but an invitation to join something greater than oneself. And maybe that’s what makes Lori and Greg so special. They see every soul as part of the community, not just recipients of charity but participants in the grand story they’re writing, one meal at a time.

Inside Poppy’s Coffee, Christian music plays in the background—soft melodies that rise and fall like the breath of the place. On the blackboard, scriptures are scrawled in a neat matter-of-fact hand, messages of hope and faith, reminding everyone who steps inside that they’re not alone. “The Lord will provide,” one verse said, and it was more than a phrase; it was the story of their lives. Greg and Lori could tell you tale after tale of the miracles that happened just in time—money appearing when the coffers were dry, food donations showing up when the shelves were bare. It’s no wonder they believe. They’ve lived it. 

Their faith isn’t worn on their sleeves like a badge, but woven into every thread of what they do. Whether it’s serving coffee to the homeless who wander in or gathering 30 volunteers to help feed the hungry on Thursdays, Greg and Lori live their beliefs. It’s why Court St. Ministries continues to thrive and why the people of this small Ohio town trust them. Not just because of what they’ve done, but because of who they are.

And in them, I saw something that stretched far beyond the walls of the shop or the boundaries of their food bank. It was a kind of generosity that didn’t stop at the giving, but reached into the hearts of those they helped and pulled something greater from them—a hope, a belief in better days ahead.

It’s people like Greg and Lori Hill who the Hope & Generosity Tour seeks out. Not because they are perfect, but because they are real—grounded in the soil of America’s heartland, where faith isn’t a word but a way of life.

Gallipolis, Ohio, is a place that clings to the banks of the Ohio River like an old soul too tired to move but too stubborn to let go. Founded in 1790 by French settlers, it was never a city made for grand ambitions, but rather for endurance. The streets run quiet under the weight of time, with the occasional stirring of life reminding folks–all 3,313 of them–that there’s still work to be done.

I am hold up here, not by design, but fate. After attending the farm festival I found myself with only a day’s worth of a critical medication I take. Gallipolis held the closest pharmacy that would fill an out-of-state prescription. But the exercise became more of a lesson in bait & switch. 

They would happily fill the script for me; however, they had to order the medication because none was in stock. This was on a Friday, the earliest they could fill the order was Monday, assuming all went well and the shipment arrived. That meant I was staring into the teeth of at least three days without this medication; my skin began to crawl just thinking about it.

Monday came and went, then Tuesday. By early evening Tuesday I decided to excise myself from my current predicament and simply head to a bigger town, one about twice the size of Gallipolis. This effort came up a success and I’m now back on track. 

In Gallipolis, you’ll find the weather-worn courthouse standing sentinel
in the town square, surrounded by simple homes with front porches that
hold their share of secrets.

But while I was stuck in that Gallipolis, I decided to explore some–even look around for someone that might fit the model of the person I was looking for during the Hope & Generosity Tour. Here fate would intervene again… but that story is for another day…

This town, its name stitched together from “Galli” for the Frenchmen who landed here and “polis” for the city they wished to build, never quite reached the heights its founders might have imagined. But the people, those who’ve lived here generation after generation, learned to live not by the dreams of gold but by the river’s rhythm—a slow, steady beat, flowing past the Appalachian foothills, carrying stories that echo back through years of coal, timber, and stubborn survival. 

In Gallipolis, you’ll find the weather-worn courthouse standing sentinel in the town square, surrounded by simple homes with front porches that hold their share of secrets. The river, ever-present and patient, is more than just a boundary; it’s a lifeline, a way out, a way in, and sometimes the only company on long, quiet evenings. The French settlers may have left their mark on the name, but it’s the generations of American hands that carved the rest of the town out of the land. 

The railroad came and went, industries rose and fell, but Gallipolis never quit. It’s a town built not on what it has, but on what it’s lost, and the strength to keep going despite that. There are still farms nearby, and folks who work the land with the kind of care that only comes from knowing what it takes to hold on. 

Gallipolis won’t dazzle you, and it doesn’t try to. It’s a place where people live, quietly, stubbornly, and in the way they know best. For some, it’s a home, and for others, just a stop on the river. But for those who stay, it’s enough. Enough to keep going, enough to stay rooted, enough to watch the river and know that it, like the town, keeps moving forward, slow and steady. 

There’s a certain romance to traveling the back roads in a 42-year-old VW Vanagon camper named Josie. She’s no sleek modern marvel, but she has something better: character. Josie is a boxy, unhurried beast, painted a faded shade of Assuan Brown and Cream that once gleamed in the sun, now softened by the years. Her engine purrs with the steady rhythm of an old friend, though it sputters and coughs now and then, a reminder that time waits for no machine. But it’s in those sputters and coughs, in the unpredictable breakdowns along the way, that the true spirit of the journey emerges.

Josie is more than just a vehicle; she’s a companion, a trusty steed on this wandering quest through America’s forgotten byways. There’s something about her that draws people in, makes them stop and stare, maybe even smile. You see, Josie isn’t just carrying me from place to place—she’s carrying stories, memories, a life lived on four wheels. And when she pulls into a small town, she does so with a quiet dignity, like an old traveler who’s seen it all but still finds wonder in the world.

The breakdowns are inevitable, of course. You don’t travel in a 42-year-old van without expecting a few hiccups along the way. But that’s part of the adventure, part of the charm. One day, you might find yourself on the side of a dusty road, the sun beating down as you stare at an engine that’s decided it’s had enough for now. Maybe it’s the alternator this time, or a belt that’s snapped and left you stranded miles from anywhere. It’s frustrating, sure, but it’s also a chance to slow down, to really see where you are. You set up camp where you stand, make a pot of coffee on the old propane stove, and wait for help to come—or for Josie to decide she’s ready to roll again.

Josie isn’t just carrying me from place to place—she’s
carrying stories, memories, a life lived on four wheels.

And help always does come. That’s one of the joys of traveling in a van like Josie. She has a way of attracting the right kind of attention. Folks in small towns recognize something in her—maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s a kinship with something well-worn but still useful. They’ll come out of their houses or their shops, and they’ll offer a hand. It’s not just about fixing what’s broken; it’s about the connection made in those moments. The shared stories over a greasy engine, the laughter at some absurdity of the situation, the kindness of strangers who become, if only for a little while, part of your journey.

Josie’s appeal lies in her imperfections, in the way she forces you to embrace the unexpected. She’s not fast, and she’s not fancy, but she’s steady and true. She makes you slow down, take notice, and appreciate the little things—like the sound of rain on her metal roof, the way the sun sets just right through her windshield, or the simple pleasure of a meal cooked on the road.

Traveling with Josie is more than just a road trip. It’s a lesson in patience, in resilience, and in finding joy in the journey, no matter where it takes you. And perhaps, most importantly, it’s a reminder that the best stories are often found off the beaten path, in the breakdowns and the unexpected detours, where the real adventure begins.