Hurricane Katrina was like a jagged knife. It cut up our lives in so many ways I didn't know if we'd ever be able to pick up the pieces. On August 29, the day she sliced across New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, I was on my way to Texas.

The day before, with the weather forecasters predicting Hurricane Katrina would slam into low-lying New Orleans, police and city officials ordered us to clear out. Before I could exhale, I was in a caravan of three cars with two of my children—4-year-old Jeremiah and 1-year-old Ashanti—and 17 other people from our extended family. The goal was to get out of the city. But first, I had to find my youngest child.

My 7-month-old son, A'Mahd, had been staying with his godmother, my friend Nikolle. When it became clear Katrina was definitely coming, I scrambled to contact Nikolle, who lived on the other side of town. I punched her cell phone number repeatedly and heard the same message over and over—"No signal; call again later." We tried to drive to Nikolle's house, but the streets were too jammed with traffic. My heart raced in panic. I have to get to my son!

The highways were backed up for miles, and the others in our caravan were desperate to get out of New Orleans.

Suddenly, I faced the most painful decision any mother could imagine: Stay or leave?

In my head, I knew I couldn't stay in the city. But my heart told me it was impossible to go.

Yet, as I looked at little Ashanti and Jeremiah, I knew I had to do what was best for them too. I had to leave.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I prayed to God that He would keep A'Mahd and Nikolle safe in His hands. I trusted Him to watch over them.

We left New Orleans for Dallas, Texas, escaping the floods. Nevertheless, my heart was drowning in sadness.

When we finally arrived in Dallas a couple of days later, we spent the night at a hotel. The next day we went to the Red Cross shelter hastily set up at Reunion Arena to get food, clothing, and other necessities, and to search for anyone who might have seen A'Mahd and Nikolle.

"If they left New Orleans, I have a feeling they're in Baton Rouge," I told my family. "I just need to find my baby."

I asked about filing a missing person report and showed everyone I met a photo of A'Mahd on the tiny screen of my cell phone. It showed a smiling A'Mahd with his brother and sister. It was the only photo that I had of him.

Jeremiah and Ashanti were beginning to sense things weren't right. Besides the trauma of being whisked away to a strange city, they were missing their baby brother. "Where's A'Mahd?" they kept asking. "I want to see A'Mahd!"

At the shelter, an aid worker gave us the address of the Dallas Housing Authority, where workers were scrambling to find more permanent housing for the thousands of evacuees who were suddenly homeless.

In time, I realized God had been listening to my prayers.

Mike Fechner, the minister of spiritual development at Prestonwood Baptist Church in Plano, Texas, has spent years working with the Dallas Housing Authority and other groups in inner-city Dallas to bring whatever aid necessary to the people who needed it most. With evacuees pouring into North Texas, Mike and a team of volunteers went to the housing authority with an offer to help displaced families like ours.

There, Mike found us.

"Something led me to you," Mike told me later. "Of all the people there, I was led to you."

I truly believe this wonderful man was our angel. He listened quietly as I told my story. Then he gathered my family together, gave us inflatable beds and blankets, food and water, and led us in prayer.

And then he did something that let me know it was going to be okay. He handed me a stuffed animal.

"This is for A'Mahd," he said, "because we're going to put our trust in God that you will be able to give that to him."

He never doubted it would happen.

We set off toward our new home with the peace and assurance that God was taking care of everything. The generous people at Prestonwood Baptist promised they would help us meet whatever material need we had. And they did.