The Candle Maker

Autorentext
James Ryan Orr, a Husband, father, teacher, songwriter, and author, had his spark for writing ignited in a creative writing class in college. He has traveled across the state of North Carolina sharing his testimony, insight, and music with others at drug and alcohol treatment facilities, churches, community events, and also through radio interviews.

Klappentext

A remarkable, must-read parable for those experiencing the journey of faith.

Zusammenfassung
A remarkable, must-read parable for those experiencing the journey of faith.

Leseprobe

Deflated, Phillip sat on a wooden bench looking out of spaced, unfocused eyes at the common area where people from the Town came to walk, picnic, and, in warmer weather, swim in the pond near the path. In his mind he conjured up images of his father, staggering along snow-swept streets, falling, freezing off into death, a failure. For a moment he hated his mother for not telling him before now, for holding back; he hated her for letting him know, hated the people of the Town for failing to hear and help, and hated his father most of all, whom he had never met, for his weakness. Blind in his thoughts, boiling into imagery of snow, death, and hatred, he failed to notice the scuffling of feet as an older woman sat down beside him on the other end of the bench.

Do bless, I am tired and my feet are mighty soreumm, umm, something sore, she spoke loudly enough for Phillip to hear.

Phillip, returning outward in his thinking, now noticed the old woman, old as anyone he had ever seen, under a myriad of layers against the late autumn wind and its chill. He crossed his arms as he edged away from her, closer to the outer edge of the bench.

You do know, she said, obviously talking to him, that I have walked many a step today, and of all the places in this land, I find myself right here, sitting right here, next to you. Her attention focused back on her feet. Do bless these old feet of mine...mighty sore.

Phillip kept his position, stone-faced, staring forward, body rigid, hoping she would get the point and find somewhere to move along to with her complaining.

Young man, I know you hear me, she persisted. I swear these young people these daysall rushed to get nowhere, all hurry up and wait, and then when they finally end up somewhere they can't see it. She was now rubbing her knees. Do bless these old legs of mine...umm, umm, ummm, they are sore. He broke the edge of his hard stare momentarily to glance, out of curiosity, at her feet, thinking that anyone hurting that bad must have something wrong with her. Her shoes looked beyond worn, older in style, along with the rest of her clothing, with scuffs severely worked into them, the soles worn bone-thin through what must have been countless, long, hard miles. Never in his life had Phillip seen such shoes; he could only imagine the path this lady had walked to end up beside him.

He softened, acknowledging her: I'm sorryI don't intend to be disrespectful to you, it's just that today I heard some bad newsand I just wanted to come here to sit and think for a while in quiet.

Still rubbing her knees, she corrected him: Rude

He leaned closer. Excuse me?

Rude, young man, you were being rudenot disrespectful. There's a difference between the two.

His face quite puzzled, mouth hanging open, Phillip stammered, III'm sorryI didn't mean to

Hold it right there, putting her hand up, leathered by time but not frail, a thick finger stretched out, waving Phillip to stop speaking, I know why you are here, Phillip. I was sent to find you here.

Puzzled even more, he wondered who would have sent this woman shuffling along to find him. I'm sorry, do I know you