Jack vs. the Tornado, page 1
A new favorite read aloud for all families. An exciting story, engaging characters, and solid truth, this is the first book of what is sure to be a fascinating series.
BROCK EASTMAN, author of the Quest for Truth series
This is the kind of children’s book series I’ve been searching for. I finished Jack vs. the Tornado in one sitting and felt a growing fondness for the characters with each passing chapter. I can’t wait to introduce my children to the Tree Street Kids!
ASHERITAH CIUCIU, author of Unwrapping the Names of Jesus and Unwrapping the Names of Jesus for Kids (2021)
When ten-year-old Jack Finch has to leave the farm he loves and relocate to the suburbs of Chicago, he’s not happy. After all, who would want to leave their pet chicken behind and move into a strange home that’s next door to a cemetery? Join Jack and his new friends in the first of these exciting adventures.
GLENYS NELLIST, author of the Love Letters from God and Little Mole series
The Tree Street Kids series is full of adventure, mystery, and is a flat-out good read! As a young reader, I grabbed a book that encouraged my faith and devoured it. I think the same thing will happen as children read this series. Bravo!
CHRIS FABRY, author and host of Chris Fabry Live on Moody Radio
When I read Jack vs. the Tornado at bedtime, my kids would beg me to read one more chapter. I always gave in because, secretly, I enjoyed the book just as much as they did.
ISABEL TOM, mom and author of The Value of Wrinkles: A Young Perspective on How Loving the Old Will Change Your Life
Jack vs. the Tornado is a lovely, encouraging, fun, and hopeful book. Amanda weaves an adventure tale that is captivating to children and moving to adults. My young daughter couldn’t put it down. Then it was my turn. I laughed even as I fought back a tear. Amanda skillfully weaves into the story important life issues: change, friendship, family challenges, aging, service, love, faith. These themes are so organic to the story that they touch the heart gently, winsomely, and naturally. Jack is nostalgic in that it treasures past experiences and bends them helpfully to present situations; and it is hopeful as it reaches outside of itself to Christ. Jack vs. the Tornado will be treasured by children and trusted by parents for generations to come.
RAY RHODES JR., author of Susie: The Life and Legacy of Susannah Spurgeon and Yours, till Heaven: The Untold Love Story of Charles and Susie Spurgeon
Since Jack vs. the Tornado is written for children, I thought I’d have two of my grandchildren read it. When I asked Isaac, who is 9, what the central message was, he said simply, “It shows that God is with us even when we have to do hard things.” Abby, who is 17, was more detailed: “This book was constantly throwing twists and turns at the reader; it kept me on the edge of my seat. The light of Jesus Christ shone across this book as the main character is having trouble trusting God in his new move. The plot allows this book to relate and apply to many kids, giving a clear picture of what trusting Christ looks like. The story is riveting, adding interesting, unlikely events that keep you eager to find the answer.” That’s high praise. Abby and Isaac’s sister Evelyn is now reading it!
ERWIN W. LUTZER, author and Pastor Emeritus, The Moody Church, Chicago
The Tree Street Kids will be one of those book series you and your kids want to read again and again. These neighborhood kids are so funny and real and engaging; they seem like they might just live next door. I loved tagging along as they tackled big adventures and grappled with real-life situations. As a Christian parent, I treasure books that tell great stories and point children to God. Yes, both things are possible, and Amanda does it well. Enjoy!
JAMIE JANOSZ, managing editor, Today in the Word; author, When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up
The 1990s kids in the Tree Street Kids series are relatable, and their challenges are things kids in the 2020s face as well. Amanda writes with curiosity, honesty, and warmth, and has created a memorable set of characters that’ll hook even reluctant readers. I’m excited that these books will make their way into a world in need of messages of faith, hope, and friendship.
MICHELLE VAN LOON, author of Becoming Sage: Cultivating Meaning, Purpose, and Spirituality in Midlife
Jack, Midge, and the other Tree Street Kids are the neighbors you wish you had. Each chapter is filled with adventure, fun, and friendship.
MARIANNE HERING, coauthor of the Imagination Station series
© 2021 by AMANDA CLEARY EASTEP
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™
Although the Tree Street Kids series is set in the 1990s (with occasional references to decades prior), these books use the 2011 NIV translation when quoting Scripture.
All emphasis in Scripture has been added.
Edited by Marianne Hering
Interior Design: Erik M. Peterson and Brandi Davis
Cover and interior illustrations: Aedan Peterson
Cover design: Erik M. Peterson
Cover icon of street sign copyright © 2018 by -VICTOR- / iStock (1030917706). All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Eastep, Amanda Cleary, author.
Title: Jack vs. the tornado / Amanda Cleary Eastep.
Other titles: Jack versus the tornado
Description: Chicago : Moody Publishers, [2021] | Series: Tree Street Kids; 1 | Audience: Ages 8-12. | Audience: Grades 4-6. | Summary: When his parents move the family to the suburbs, ten-year-old Jack yearns to return his grandparents’ farm, but soon makes new friends--and a surprising discovery at the home of neighbor in need.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020047257 (print) | LCCN 2020047258 (ebook) | ISBN 9780802421029 (paperback) | ISBN 9780802499127 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Moving, Household--Fiction. | Brothers and sisters--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Neighborliness--Fiction. | Tornadoes--Fiction. | Christian life--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.E258 Jac 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.E258 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047257
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020047258
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For Keenan, Mackenzie, and Megan, who once lived in a small blue house and who have made our story an adventure. I love you more than all the words can say.
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CONTENTS
1. The Worst Birthday Present Ever
2. Take Cover!
3. The Big Move
4. Jack the Pancake
5. Dad’s Surprise
6. A Neighborhood Nuisance
7. Umployed
8. A Mysterious Bump
9. Meet Ellison Henry
10. Dark and Stormy Night
11. Player 2
12. Tree Street Kids
13. Pitching Practice
14. A Major Discovery
15. Digging for Treasure
16. Spiraling Down
17. Out of “Lives”
18. Journey to the Center of the Yard
19. The Best Hayloft Fort
20. Saving Mr. Bruno
21. Tornado Boss
22. Game Over
23. Strange Door
24. Hook Returns
25. Team Players
26. A New Quest
Acknowledgments
Notes
1
THE WORST BIRTHDAY PRESENT EVER
For my tenth birthday, I got the worst present ever.
We moved.
The day after the ice-cream cake and new gym shoes, my mom and dad packed up the farmhouse whe re we’d lived my whole life and kerplunked us into the suburbs of Chicago. My new town, King’s Grove, is only forty miles away from the farm. But it feels like a million.
Moving is worse than getting socks and underwear for your birthday.
Here’s what you can’t pack when you move:
The freedom to toss metal coffee cans into the air and shoot them with a BB gun.
My favorite chicken, Henrietta, who sits on my lap and even survived a tornado.
The way the sun sets behind our barn and turns the distant farm buildings into black silhouettes against the blazing orange sky.
And we couldn’t pack my grandparents (for obvious reasons) who we had lived with on the farm in Goodnow all my life. They stayed to spruce up the place before they put it up for sale and moved too. They said the farm was just getting to be “too much.” That’s grown-up code for too much work and too much money.
But the worst thing? I couldn’t pack the best fort in the world—the hayloft in our barn. It was one, two, three, four, five, six, creak, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven steps up the wooden ladder. Then a hop over the top of the ladder into the wide open space under the towering ceiling of wood timbers.
Since my grandparents had sold their milk cow and horse a few years ago, the loft wasn’t stacked with bales of hay anymore. I guess the only “animal” left in the barn was Grandpa Ernie’s old, brown Ford Bronco.
So the hayloft was all mine … except for two giant electric Christmas candles and Midge, my little sister. I had to let her play up there sometimes. Luckily, she doesn’t like dolls. And when I frown and say, “Do not touch my stuff,” she doesn’t.
I had the hayloft set up just right: plastic crates for chairs, eight cinder blocks and a piece of plywood for a table, and the bucket seat out of a long-gone car.
My grandpa had built the barn and the hayloft door by hand when my dad was a kid. The door’s oak wood, sanded smooth and stained brown as a big chocolate bar, was almost too fancy for a barn. Across the middle of the door, Grandpa had carved a Bible verse: “By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country.”1
The verse is about Abraham, the father of the Hebrew people. When God told him to go to a new place, Abraham obeyed, even though he didn’t know where he was going.
Kind of like moving to the suburbs.
On the night before the move, I sat with my family around the kitchen table after dinner. Mom lit the lopsided one and zero candles stuck into the top of the still-frozen cake, and everyone sang.
I squeezed my eyes shut till it hurt, made an impossible wish, sucked in a massive breath, and—Midge belted out the classic “you belong in the zoo” verse—then I blew out the candles.
My family clapped, even more enthusiastically than they usually do at birthdays. But it didn’t make me feel better that my wish hadn’t come true. Of course.
Moving boxes were still stacked up around us, ready to be packed into the moving truck in the morning. I just smiled the way I do in school pictures every year … like I’m supposed to be happy even when there’s such a thing as math.
Once the celebration was over, I velcroed on my new gym shoes and headed outside to the chicken coop to retrieve Henrietta.
The wind was whipping up, rustling the fields of shin-high cornstalks.
This was tornado season.
I tucked Henrietta safe and sound into my backpack and hurried to the barn so I could watch my last sunset. I grabbed my camping lantern off a nail on the wall and climbed up the ladder into the loft. I switched on the lantern and set it on the edge of the hayloft floor near the top of the ladder so I would be able to see my way back once the sun went down.
I had brought Henrietta to keep me company. I couldn’t imagine leaving her behind when we moved. I wondered if chickens could miss people.
“Will you miss me?” I asked her.
She popped her head out of the backpack. Bok?
“I’ll miss you too.”
I set the backpack on the floor. I let Henrietta go to peck at whatever bugs were hiding between the loft floorboards.
Then I dragged the bucket seat closer to the hayloft door.
Two years ago on my eighth birthday, I’d carved my initials J. F. (Jack Finch) and the date—June 2, 1993—near the bottom of the door with the pocketknife I got. The letters and numbers were carved right below the initials my grandpa and my dad had carved in the 1970s when Grandpa made the door and Dad was a kid my age: E. F. for Ernie Finch and H. F. for Howie Finch. They had faded on account of being old (the initials, not Grandpa and Dad).
Grandpa had rigged up the hayloft door with a long rope tied to the handle so I could pull the door shut. To secure it, I just had to drop the iron hook dangling from the doorjamb into the eye hook attached to the door.
I sat on the edge of the bucket seat and flipped open my pocketknife. I set the tip of the blade against the lower corner of the door, right below the J. F. I had carved two years ago.
I slowly dug into the wood: STILL HOME ’95.
I snapped the knife shut and pushed open the door with my foot. I gently scooped up Henrietta, who was pecking next to me, set her on my lap, and sat back to watch the sun set.
Henrietta was more like a cat than she was a chicken. More like a pet than she was breakfast or dinner. (Although I did have to keep reminding my grandma of that. Grandma Josephine is more farmer than pet lover. More about fried chicken than cuddling chickens.)
Henrietta could sit still for an hour as long as I stroked her back and didn’t fidget too much. She clucked softly as I watched dark clouds march in and take over the yellows and oranges that had settled on the horizon.
A gust of wind rushed in behind the clouds and slammed the hayloft door against the outside wall of the barn.
I jumped out of the bucket seat to grab the end of the rope before it snaked outside and out of my reach.
Henrietta fluttered up into the air in a cloud of white feathers and frustration.
“Sorry, Hen!”
I snatched the end of the rope. Hand over hand, I took up the slack. A little more, a little more until I was in a tug-of-war with the wind. The rope was now almost short enough for me to pull the door totally shut and latch the hook.
Whoosh!
The wind grabbed the edge of the door and threw it open again. But I didn’t let go of the rope. The door swung wide and yanked me with it.
I belly-flopped onto the floor … and nearly halfway out of the hayloft door.
I stared down at the water puddling in the black mud far below. Rain pelted the back of my head. The wind tore at my T-shirt.
I let go of the now-useless rope. I clutched at the edge of the barn floor digging into the top of my ribs to keep myself from falling all the way out. Carefully, I inched myself backward until more floor than air was underneath my chest.
Then something landed on my back with a heavy thump.
Henrietta. She was freaking out. Her claws scratched through my T-shirt and her wings beat at me.
“Hen! You are not helping!”
Finally getting my hands underneath my shoulders, I heaved myself backward, sending Henrietta fluttering into the air again, just as the hayloft door flew back and slammed shut.
The door kept banging like something was trying to get in.
At least we were both safe inside. Real quick, I told God thanks.
For a second, I could swear I heard a voice mixed in with all the wind and rain. God?
I cautiously crawled back toward the door. I had to get it latched. I had to protect my fort.
Then I heard the voice again. This time inside the barn and right below the loft.
“JACK!”
Someone was grabbing my shirt and dragging me backward toward the ladder.
Dad!
“There’s a tornado warning on TV!” he yelled into my ear.
Dad started down the ladder first.
“I have to get Hen!” I shouted.
That wasn’t going to be easy. She was scurrying around the loft like, well, a chicken with her head cut off.
Chasing her made it worse. Her squawking almost drowned out the howl of the wind.
“Jack, we have to leave her!” Dad had started to climb back into the loft.
I didn’t want to leave Hen, but I didn’t want my dad risking his neck too. And I didn’t want to disobey him. So I said another prayer and followed him down the ladder.
