A Short Story
The old house had stood since 1896 when Mrs Appleby’s father had finished building it. In those days it was beautiful – a single storey dwelling built of wood and painted white. The sun used to bounce off the boards. A wraparound porch contained several rocking chairs where Ma and Pa sat at the end of the day reading their Bibles and thanking the Lord for His many blessings, as they watched the sun disappear beyond the horizon.
As Summer turned to Autumn Ma spread quilts over both their knees to keep the chill out. Quilts that had been made with love and prayer. Every stitch contained thanks for her husband and little girl Bessie.
Faith is knowing there is more to life than what I can see and feel and touch
Faith is knowing there is a God Who loves me unconditionally. For everlasting.
Faith is looking at the world around me and knowing there is a Creator.
Faith is looking into a newborn baby’s eyes and feeling overwhelming love and knowing that God loves me with an even greater love.
What A Year
On 30th August 2015 in the early hours of the morning, my church caught fire and was completely destroyed. The auditorium was gone along with offices, the coffee shop, hair salon. We awoke to the news via Facebook that there had been a fire and church was cancelled. As the pictures emerged and there was a report on the local news on TV, so it seemed very bleak.
It was so upsetting to have your church gone. To me it felt like God had gone too. I had so many memories of meeting God in that building, my baptism, my daughter’s baptism. Tears had been shed, Jesus had been worshipped. Good times, bad times… so many memories. As our pastor later said “Buildings don’t change people but what happens in them does.” What an awful day.
A Short Story
The room was bathed in glorious sunlight. Dust particles bounced through the air, twinkling like fairy dust as the sun hit them. I glanced around the room. My room. In the corner was my comfy old chair. The royal blue had faded. The seat had an imprint, just the same size as me. My patchwork cushion that I made in the third year lay squished at the side of the chair. I ran my hand across the arm – smooth, warm velveteen. How many times had I done that? I was going to miss that old chair.
My eyes strayed towards the cushion. I picked it up and hugged it close. It felt familiar. Should I take it? No it would only remind me of here. Of the place where I belonged. I reluctantly placed it back in the corner of the chair.
I continued my journey around the room. My eyes took in the window. The brilliant white nets blinding my eyes in the sunlight. Outside lay the green grass of my childhood garden. It looked so lush. The rain in the night had refreshed it.