22/12- God- Tiny Titbit Of Time

Contemporary

Ding dong. Ding dong. The clock strikes two.

He sat on the uncomfortable church pew, staring at the altar, his little heart's beats eachoing through the empty room. His father stepped out "for some air", but the little boy knew it was so he wouldn't have to see his Father and role model cry.

The boy's body was weak, so he winced as she shuffled on the hard seat. Each movement was too much, and the air froze around him. A magnificent portrait of the greatest man stood to the left of the altar. All his glory shone from the canvas, the crown of thorns resting perfectly on his head. The boy knew he was not comparable, but he could feel for the Great man, as they both suffered, for no reason other than cruel people, and cruel fate.

He closed his eyes, and silence washed over him. This silence was beautiful. Not the silence that said "Poor boy. I still love you," but whispered "I love you, my child. Forever."

Words from the Lord's mouth to his ear. So much sweeter, and to his preference.

Once again, he shifted in his seat, weakly gripping the bench's edge.

A minute ticked by, then another. The Father entered and sat beside his Son. "Merry Christmas, Father," he smiled, opening his eyes to find the candles a little shorter, and the room slightly duller.

"Merry Christmas, my boy." The son ignored the tears in his Father's voice.

If the Lord could have rained his glory upon the boy, he would have been forever in debt. An ounce of mercy, or an ounce of forgiveness. He would beg for the chance for his body to be like the other boys'. Strong enough to play with them, too. Oh, well. The Lord clearly had other plans.

"I need one more moment, Father. We may go home soon." The clock struck half past.

The footsteps grew quieter until a shining light graced the altar. The boy grabbed his crutch to stand. A capacious man stood, smiling down as his green robe flooded the floor around him.

"Who are you, Sir?" the young boy asked, hopping up the few stairs to get closer.

"I am the Present, young Child."

"Do I know you, Sir?"

"I would hope so!" He laughed heartily.

"Do you know me, Sir?" The boy leaned against the wall, already exhausted from moving.

"Even better than you do."

"And may I ask what you are doing here, Sir?"

"Certainly, young boy. I do not come for you to fear, though there is much of that."

"Fear and I are already good friends, Sir."

"Well, that is unfortunate. But not this type of fear. I'm afraid to tell you your fate is in the hands of one man: the Founder of your Feast." The man wrapped his great arm around the boy, pulling him closer so he could sit on his lap.

"How come, Sir?"

"He is the only one who can heal you. The only vessel the Lord has at this time. And, well, at a later time..."

"I'll already be gone?"

"I'm sorry to say."

The church door opened, and the boy's father walked in. But he did not seem to see his son, as he crinkled his brow, called his name, and walked back out.

The clock struck three.

"You must go, mustn't you, Sir?" The young boy played with his crutch.

The man just smiled, and his form slowly faded, and the boy found himself back on the pew. His Father walked in again.

"There you are, Son! Where did you go? Are you feeling...."

"Much better, Father!" The boy plastered a smile on his face. His Father didn't have to know his pain, both physical and his newfound knowledge. "I wanted to see if someone was coming to celebrate at church."

The Father lifted his Son on his shoulders, avoiding the glances from the people now entering the Church.

"Let us go make Merry!" The boy cried feebly.

"Your wish is my command."

The Father's pace was hearty, and the pair travelled at record speed.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Miller!" The young boy called to his neighbour, waving gently.

"Merry Christmas, you wonderous boy!" She called back as the Father nodded to her.

"Merry Christmas, Mr and Mrs Jones."

"Merry Christmas!"

"God bless you and your children." The boy added.

"God bless you, love."

As the pair walked, they made everyone Merry. The Feast's Founder's house was not alight with their Merriment, but the young boy felt it would be soon.

"You know, Father," the boy started, patting his Father on the shoulder. "I hope those people in Church saw me. So they can be reminded of the one who made blind men see and lame beggars walk. Today is an important day to remember Him."

"Everyone can see the wonderful boy you are! Ask Mrs Miller!"

"That is not what I meant."

"Well, it should be. You are not weird or wrong in any way. Yes, you show the Lord's power, but through your strength, and not through your..."

"Weakness."

"I, um, yes. Your condition." The Father felt very awkward, indeed. But the Son did not.

He was more than happy. Even if he couldn't play like the other boys. He had a family who loved him, and could feel God's love all around. Through the Present's appearance, to his Father's kindness, it was everywhere. Right up to the feeling that he's going to get better. He may not have been completely truthful to his Father, but he was sure it'd be true in the near Future.

And even if it wouldn't come true, he was happy to go. He doesn't prefer it, but he'll make life easier on his family. And he'd be reunited with his Lord, who had done so much for him.

"God bless you, Mr Turner!" he called to his final neighbour.

And then he was home for Christmas.

And only one man could decide if it'd be his last.

Thank you for reading. I hope you got a little Christmas joy from this story. Here, for anyone who wants it, is the maintenance.

If you enjoyed this story, please, please, please (I can add a cherry if necessary) like, comment, rate and share. It really helps me out and allows others to see these (hopefully decent) stories. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.