The boards creaked and moaned as the weight of the snow and the brittle, stabby needles seemed to push them further into the hillside. Heavy, it was all so heavy and unforgiving...
Maybe we’re going to disappear forever.
They wished they could shake off the damp much like they shook their branches freely in the misty sunshine filtering through their leaves. That was back home.
Maybe the sun doesn’t remember us.
Several planks were focused on the crumpled, browned pages of a forgotten hymnal huddled next to the base of the second pew from the back. Occasionally a page would whisper in a cold draft sneaking through the doorway.
Maybe He doesn’t remember us.
The old, wizened, mold-blackened board shook off that thought. As G-dless as this place now seemed, it was once filled with a community of parishioners who seemed as one. In the silent considerations of the once-beautiful chestnut boards, the voices raised in song illuminated even dark winter days. The notes were reminiscent of songbirds flying high above the redwood grove, sweetness echoing through branches and leaves of emerald and dewdrops.
Maybe He does.
“For there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease.” The wise Redwood suddenly emblazoned this reverie through the dimness of the dark, damp building. It had been almost engraved in his wooden whirls years ago, first spoken sweetly through the lips of a tiny, dark-haired wisp of a girl. She had eyes the color of the Pacific Northwest ocean, deep blue and mysterious with secrets. They shone on that morning with heavenly love.
Maybe we have another life to live, my friends.
The memory of the little girl murmuring those empowering words beamed light around the large room, lifting spirits and encouraging more memories to be softly spoken between ceiling, walls and floor. They were giants, after all, not diminished by the sharp saws that formed them into their current shapes. They were lulled into a very long, peaceful sleep now filled with dreams and memories.
Maybe we will know our greatness again.
The door slammed open. Two people burst through the opening in whirl of snow and laughter. The sagging boards felt themselves lifted upright, suddenly of their former glory as she of the deep blue eyes and dark hair ran her hands over them. "This is the church I grew up in. This is what I wanted to show you. I haven't been able to get this place out of my mind over the years, and it's in my heart still. Thanks to my Grandmother, it's mine now. Can you imagine this as our home, my love?"
Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.
|Courtesy of http://www.ewallpapers.eu|
|This week's Master Class|
This week, we are ending with the prompt instead of starting with it! Carrie chose Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes, which ends with:
Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
[Bible quote from Job 14:7 (ESV)]
This was a lovely continuation from the first with a happy ending to boot. The little voices, worried about being forgotten, given strength from the old grandfathers who still remembered their strength.ReplyDelete
I love your comment in so many ways - how you call them "old grandfathers" makes me smile and get all warm and fuzzy. :) Thank you so much.Delete
I feel dumb. I didn't get in the first part that it was the church remembering being a tree. Great ending though!ReplyDelete
Fantastic ending to the story! I love how it came full circle.ReplyDelete