What was that! A loud noise splits through the air. I’ve never heard anything like that before. Clouds gather above me. They’re the darkest I’ve ever seen them. Strong gusts of freezing wind split through me. The people on the sidewalks run out of sight. Where are they going? Why are they leaving?
A blinding ray of light flashes across the dark sky. And in an instant, there’s no sign of it. What was that! Was that God? I search the skies but there’s no sign of life. I really want to see God. I’ve heard many things about God from the people that come through my doors. Many of them fear him while others revere him. Then there are quite a number that despise him. I don’t know what to feel about him. My walls have heard stories of hope and gratitude, and they have also heard cries of despair and turmoil. I wonder why God does what he does to people.
What was that! Something wet hits my roof. Before I know it, pellets of water strike down at me like bullets. It’s unbearable! This is what the people described – the despair, the turmoil.
The doors of my building fling open. I watch a black umbrella slowly disappear into me. Why don’t I get a black umbrella? I glare at the sky for answers. All I get are stings in this freezing cold. He has given men legs to walk but He has rooted me to the ground.
“Thank you for giving me shelter, Lord,” a frail voice says between my walls.
It angers me. What about me? What do I get?! God is just watching me as I suffer! The people were right about him. The tales of horror I’ve heard about him were all true!
The sky rumbles and roars. I am not afraid anymore. Light flashes across the sky. I don’t even want to see Him anymore.
Everything only gets worse as the frail lady’s wet and cold feet trample across my parquet floor. Each step she takes stabs me like a knife and leaves me with wounds. My insides churn and my anger rages on. I spew curses at the dark sky.
I hurl what I’ve heard countless others have hurled within my walls with no qualms until a familiar sound captures my attention. It’s the friction of a match rubbing against it’s box. Very soon after, a familiar smell pervades the air; phosphorous.
A flicker of warmth.
A sign of hope.
My floors are still wet, my floors are still cold but my anger melts.
My wounds are healing.
Trouble and turmoil aren’t the ending of a story; I realise now, they’re only part of the beginning.
I look up at the light that flashes through the dark clouds as the frail lady kneels on my floor.