A small brick church stands at the corner of Elm and Main, her eaves bedecked with a row of icicles. Above her, the silvery moon illuminates a dancing path of snow which dusts her gabled roof. It is the stillest hour of the night.

The visitor enters, and pauses just inside her silent doors. Although the church has been empty for several hours, an aroma lingers in the air; the visitor takes a few steps with eyes closed and arms outstretched, reveling in the fragrance as it clings to his face, his shoulders, his hands.

A smile crinkles his eyes as he enters the darkened fellowship hall. There are thousands of echoes here, and he hears every voice. He remembers every gathering in this room, the clink of every spoon, the click of every slide. With a surge of love he wades through the century of memories, gathering up whispers of laughter.

Now he moves into the Sunday School rooms, with the eager faces of generations of children before him. He has memorized each freckle and curl, each gap-toothed smile and scabbed knee. His heart fills up as he listens--in the same span of time at which light captures dark-- to every story ever told here. Hundreds of children have lisped his name in these rooms, and as he visits each corner, he cherishes them all.

His steps take him next into the sanctuary, where he stops for a moment to gaze at the large wooden cross dominating the platform. He remembers

And now the air pulses and swells with music, glorious music, in tempos both quick and slow, in major and minor keys. His people are singing for him, past, present, and future. The music is both hushed and loudly joyous, at once a capella and accompanied by strings, brass, drums. Each note is precious to the listener's ears.

As he approaches the altar, he lingers at each pew, hearing through the ages all the words of comfort or encouragement ever spoken there. With great tenderness he thinks of each person by nameman, woman, and child, senior citizen and infant.

At the pulpit he stops to listen with joy to a thousand sanctified sermons.

Finally, the visitor stands at the altar, where myriad prayers have ascended from countless earnest lips. He watches as the shadows of innumerable petitions and praises rise heavenward, and he remembers each one. He walks the length of the altar, remembering too the prayers that are yet to come, and shedding blessing from his fingertips.

His benediction now settles into every niche of the church, and he steals silently away. The little brick building stands serenely beneath the stars. It is the stillest hour of the night.

Copywrite Jan Ackerson--2006

Jan is a Christian who has traveled through sorrow and depression, and has found victory and grace. She dedicates all writings to her Heavenly Father.

Check out Jan's website at http://www.1hundred-words.com
She is also the author of the short story Seriously, Mrs. Kensington?

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITER

I saw him just yesterday. It was really accidental.

There were shy smiles exchanged, eyes kept to the ground and awkward laughs that couldn't fill the silence.

We chatted for a few minutes, marveling at the way our parallel lives had separated.

His life seemed to have taken off and mine was stuck somewhere between hopeless and forgotten.

I felt like the odd shoe in the wrong size as I stood, smiling politely and listening to words that didn't make sense.

We talk of things that are of mutal interest, each tip-toeing around one question.

A question we'll never ask, a face we'll never see and songs we'll never sing, because all has gone unanswered.

He talks of passion in life and work, a brilliant career ahead of him. Opportunities just waiting to knock, success mere inches away.

My jumbled study reflects my life like an ancient patchwork quilt. Scraps of fabric sifted through time, stitched together to cover my dreams.

I learn to smile without really meaning it, I learn to laugh so it sounds like I'm enjoying it. I'm the perfect one in my category, if only I could see myself, in that one light.

My pains are my own, just as my sorrows, my life is forlorn, but I'll revive it soon.

He smiles and waves as he continues on, I whisper goodbye as I shuffle forward.

There are bills to pay, people to please and life to live in general. Why should I be affected by a jolt from the past, one fleeting memory of life lived too fast?

The bittersweet feeling lingers a half-second longer before I dare to push it away. I have no reason to hate my life, to wish that everything were different.

I've done my best and my worst at times inscribed through history. I've struggled to make my voice heard, my song replayed, my soul bared.

What I have given will always come back, bringing blessings as fuzzy hats.

Fuzzy hat feelings of hope and peace, little furry earmuffs of acceptance and joy. I'll learn to wear them, whenever I go out. I'll tuck them under one arm, when I'm wandering about.

Thank you, my dearest heavenly Father, thank you for this course you've plotted. While I may resist in times afoot, please keep nudging me over the cliff. You know that I like the wind in my hair, the feeling of you running through my veins.

You have prepared me to be the glow that invites others to be in your know. You've bandaged my hurts and soothed my soul, I am yours, forever and now.

The next time I meet, this friend, bittersweet. Be with me then, hold me steady. Make my smile, genuine. Make my laugh, like summer's song. Let my ears, hear the truth and help my heart to grow very deep roots.

Sara Harricharan is a young Christian woman with a passion for writing for the Lord through faith-filled Science Fiction/Fantasy stories and pure words.

Website: Fiction Fusion
She is also the author of the short story Sunny Days

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITER