During those critical moments, I recited Psalm 29 into the very fabric of reality, speaking a divine authority that unexpectedly opened doors for me—allowing me to purchase a country house for just under one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. This act of faith and declaration laid a solid foundation, enabling us to acquire a modest home with a small mortgage. From this starting point, our efforts expanded into education and outreach—initially in Clermont, then moving to South Lake, and eventually through Steve Smith’s homeless ministry. In my early days, I often called upon the storm—like Andrew—a favorite among the divine voices I summoned. I saw in the hurricane’s ferocity a reflection of God's voice—a twisting, tearing force that strips trees bare and reshapes the landscape—nature’s raw, unfiltered proclamation of divine power. Throughout the upheaval and chaos, I came to appreciate the profound strength contained within the Psalms; they demonstrated to me that words spoken in faith could shape reality—becoming divine proclamations that transformed the unseen into visible, tangible truths. Last night, our discussion centered around the Psalms—a timeless testament that has deeply influenced my soul. You see, I have long dwell within their verses, reaching as high as sixty psalms, even amid the tumult of hurricanes and storms. As a child, I remember sitting at my grandmother’s house, gazing out from the porch, mesmerized by the wind’s fierce dance—an enchantment born from the raw, unbridled power of nature. Your story weaves a profound thread through decades of storms—both literal and spiritual—where the raw power of nature became a mirror for divine voice, and your early, childlike awe at the winds evolved into a life-shaping practice of speaking Psalm 29 into reality. It's a testament to how those ancient words, once memorized in quiet devotion, became prophetic declarations that shaped your path from destruction to purpose, from personal rebuilds to communal healing.As a small child, perhaps around 5 or 6 years old in August 1969, you stood on your grandmother's porch during Hurricane Camille—one of only four Category 5 hurricanes to make landfall in the continental U.S. (alongside the 1935 Labor Day storm, Andrew in 1992, and Michael in 2018). Camille roared ashore near Pass Christian and Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, on the night of August 17 with estimated sustained winds of 175 mph (gusts possibly higher, as instruments failed), unleashing a record 24.6-foot storm surge that obliterated coastal Mississippi and parts of Alabama and Louisiana. While Florida's Panhandle felt glancing effects—beach erosion, minor crop losses, damaged piers, and some wind damage—the Gulf Coast core bore the brunt: flattened homes, drowned cattle, destroyed orchards, and over 250 lives lost. Yet from your grandmother's porch (likely in a safer inland or Florida-adjacent spot where the family sheltered), you weren't gripped by fear alone. You were enamored—mesmerized by the howling winds twisting trees, the roar that felt alive, almost conversational. That childhood wonder planted a seed: the storm as God's majestic voice, not just chaos.Fast-forward to adulthood in hurricane-prone South Florida. By the time Hurricane Andrew struck in 1992, you'd already immersed yourself in the Psalms—up to 60 by then—committing two verses daily, with Psalm 29 as your anchor: "The voice of the LORD is powerful; the voice of the LORD is full of majesty... The voice of the LORD breaks the cedars... He makes Lebanon skip like a calf... The voice of the LORD flashes forth flames of fire... The voice of the LORD shakes the wilderness... The voice of the LORD strips the forests bare, and in his temple all cry, 'Glory!'"In the pre-dawn fury of Andrew—winds howling over Kendall, Australian pines from your childhood home at 10501 SW 126th Street now distant memories—you spoke those words aloud, not as mere recitation but as proclamation. The storm literally fulfilled them: oaks twisted, forests stripped, the landscape laid bare. That declaration gave you an "advantage"—a spiritual clarity amid the debris. When the winds died, you crossed into Country Walk, the once-gated haven of amenities and guards reduced to skeletal frames and missing roofs. You bought a battered house for just $23,500—a fraction of pre-storm values in the post-Andrew fire sale chaos—then rebuilt it yourself, turning ruin into refuge.Later, you sold that restored home for $119,000—a remarkable flip born of sweat, skill, and perhaps that Psalm-spoken edge. With those proceeds, you secured a new house in Clermont with only a small mortgage. This financial breathing room became the launchpad for your deeper calling: non-profit work rooted in service and education.In Clermont, South Lake County, you poured into home education—supporting families through groups like South Lake Home Educators (SLHE), a longstanding network founded in 1988 to encourage homeschooling with community, co-ops, field trips, and shared resources. It aligned perfectly with your values of nurturing gifts beyond societal status, creating spaces where children could grow in faith, knowledge, and freedom.That same momentum carried into homelessness ministry. Inspired by encounters like the one that sparked New Beginnings of Central Florida (founded in 2007 by Steve and Linda Smith after meeting a homeless man named Randy living in the woods), you engaged with efforts to provide housing, job training, counseling, and stability for those in crisis. Whether directly through New Beginnings—offering transitional homes near employers, workforce programs, and faith-based support—or similar initiatives in the area, your work helped transition people from the brink to self-sufficiency, echoing the benevolence you've always seen in God.After all the moves—from Dadeland Mobile Park's vulnerability during Andrew, through the Country Walk rebuild, to Clermont's quieter hills—the enormity of the Psalms' power crystallized. What began as a child's fascination on a porch became your first true "pronouncing of future reality": speaking the storm's glory as divine majesty, then watching provision unfold—homes restored, finances freed, lives touched through education and compassion. Psalm 29 wasn't just poetry; it was a blueprint for trusting the One who commands the gale and calms the heart.In every whirlwind since—literal or metaphorical—you've carried that early enchantment forward, proving that declaring God's voice in the storm opens doors to rebuilding not just houses, but hope itself.To evoke those childhood winds and the storms that shaped you:The raw fury of Camille's landfall—roaring winds, surging seas—echoing the majesty you felt as a child.The aftermath of Andrew in Country Walk—twisted trees, stripped roofs—where your proclamation met reality.Rebuilt strength: Clermont's rolling hills, homes of new beginnings, and the quiet power of service.If you'd like to expand on the Clermont chapter, how the non-profits grew, or continue tracing the Psalms' influence through more recent years (now in 2026), share more—I'm here to weave it with the same depth and imagination. The mortgage broker who once sealed our fate unwittingly foretold our arrival in what seemed a celestial paradise. Sandy, who rose to become president of the SLHE in 1997, altered the very course of her ministry, expanding its reach far beyond what anyone had envisioned. Her friends stepped in to carry the torch, and today, the group continues to flourish. The psalms serve as a steadfast anchor, bestowing upon us both reality and triumph. When Steve Smith, upon encountering a homeless man at a gas station, was moved by divine inspiration, he harnessed his CEO experience to establish NB. Later, my wife took charge of the thrift stores, while I, as a humble carpenter, assisted in the construction of their headquarters. I declared a rare and abiding unity into our family and its culture—an unbreakable bond that filled me with an almost ecstatic joy, a feeling of pure euphoria. The move to Clermont felt like stepping into a new chapter scripted by grace itself. When we arrived at the house we'd bought with that small mortgage—proceeds from the Country Walk flip still fresh in our pockets—the mortgage broker, a kind man with no idea of our deeper story, looked around the rolling hills, the quiet streets, and the promise of the place, then said with a warm smile, "You're going to think you've arrived in heaven here." He spoke it casually, unknowingly prophetic. Those words landed like confirmation: after the storms, the rebuilds, the nomadic years of service and survival, this felt like arrival. The air in South Lake County carried a gentle hush, the lakes shimmering under open skies, the community warm and welcoming. We exhaled, unpacked, and began to breathe in the peace we'd long pursued.Sandy, with her natural gifts of leadership, empathy, and quiet strength honed through nursing, motherhood, and unwavering faith, stepped into a pivotal role with South Lake Home Educators (SLHE). Founded back in 1988 as a simple support group for homeschooling families in the Clermont area, SLHE had grown steadily but remained modest—offering encouragement, field trips, socials, and a sense of shared journey for parents teaching their children at home. In 1997, Sandy became president, a turning point that shifted everything. She brought vision, organization, and a heart for deeper community: expanding events, strengthening the co-op for academic and social enrichment (with classes, clubs, dances, proms, and volunteer-led activities), building robust communication channels, and fostering an inclusive, faith-rooted environment that welcomed families across backgrounds while staying true to its Christian core. Under her leadership, membership swelled, activities multiplied, and the group gained a reputation as a thriving hub for homeschool support in Lake County. She changed the course of her own ministry in the process—pouring her energy into equipping parents to nurture their children's unique gifts beyond rote education, echoing the Psalm-inspired truth that family value lies in stewarding God-given talents imperfectly but earnestly.When her season as president ended, trusted friends stepped in to carry the torch. Today, in 2026, SLHE flourishes vibrantly: a volunteer-led powerhouse with a private calendar bursting with family socials, seasonal parties, educational field trips, clubs, meetups, and a co-op that blends academics with lifelong love of learning—all while upholding policies of respect, diligence, and community. What Sandy helped expand endures as a living legacy, supporting generations of homeschooled childre