Wonderful Peace – Part 2

Hi FFFs,

Yes, I have part 2 for you today. :)

How has your week been? Mine has been good though I haven't gotten as much done as I would have liked in my writing. Right now my story just doesn't want to come. I'm at my hardest part to write and it's just slow. Not because it isn't interested, but because I've always had a bit of trouble writing a long span of time with some information, but not a lot. I can do "Six weeks later . . ." or "The following month . . ." but when I have things I need to say, but no long scenes, just bits here and there, that's when it gets difficult. I need just a little more before I get to the longer scenes again. And I was also gone Wednesday evening when I had been planning to spend the entire evening writing. And I will be gone this evening to a music concert with my grandpa. Pray for inspiration. :)

Right now it's cold outside. At least the sky is clear right now and maybe, just maybe we'll have sunshine! I am SO ready for sunshine! It's been cloudy for days. Then we'll get one day with sun, and then more clouds. Add to that, we've had cold, and rain, but only a few flurries. We got a dusting of snow twice, but a dusting isn't really "snow." I would like just one good snowfall this winter!

Well, I'm going to keep this short today. I have other things I need to do, so I hope you enjoy this next part of the story.

Wonderful Peace

Part 2

    Arthur’s hand dropped to his side, and he leaned his weary head against the door frame while slow tears trickled down his dusty, pale cheeks. How often in years past he had heard that song sung by a voice as sweet as the one he now listened to.

“What treasure I have in this wonderful peace,
Buried deep in the heart of my soul;
So secure that no power can mine it away,
While the years of eternity roll.”

    “‘What a treasure’,” murmured Arthur to himself. “Wonderful peace.”
    “Have you found that peace, my friend?”
    The suddenness of the voice startled Arthur from his thoughts  and he turned quickly, swaying as he did so.
    “You are ill!” The exclamation was made as the speaker, a young man, tall and well built, put a strong arm out and steadied the traveler. “Come inside with me. You can’t spend it outside tonight. Come.” The newcomer, with a kind, persuasive voice, had unlocked the door and thrown it wide as he spoke.
    Trembling with excitement, fear and exhaustion Arthur allowed himself to be drawn inside and the door shut behind him. When he heard the refrain pour out of a brightly lit room into the dimly lighted entry way he hesitated, listening. No longer was it just the one and then two voices which he had heard from the porch, but his ear now caught the sound of others, not as pure in sound as the first, but as sweet.
    “Come,” the young man beside him again urged quietly, “you can listen from the same room.”
    But Arthur held back. “Wait,” he said hoarsely, gripping the arm beside him but leaning on his stick. “I . . . I . . .”
    The man turned and waited quietly.
    “Let me hear it from here,” Arthur begged as another verse began.

“And me-thinks when I rise to the City of peace,
Where the Author of peace I shall see,
That one strain of the song which the ransomed will sing,
In that heavenly kingdom shall be . . .”

    The swelling refrain seemed to sweep over the two men standing silent in the hall; one with eyes staring vacantly before him, the other watching his companion and silently praying that this soul would find the peace being sung about.

“Ah! soul, are you here without comfort or rest,
Marching down the rough pathway of time?
Make Jesus your friend ere the shadows grow dark;
Oh, accept this sweet peace so sublime.”

    As the beautiful song continued, Arthur closed his eyes and listened, unaware that a puzzled expression was crossing the face of his companion.

“Peace! Peace! wonderful peace,
Coming down from the Father above;
Sweep over my spirit forever, I pray,
In fathomless billows of love.”

    The last refrain died away in the air, but still Arthur seemed to hear the echo repeating those precious lines until he was roused from his memories by the pressure of a hand grasping his arm gently. He still felt dazed and when at last he stood in the doorway of the brightly lighted room he heard, as in a dream, the man beside him say, “John, will you draw a chair near the fire? He must be chilled through. Katie, pour a cup of coffee for him, will you? I found him on the porch, Father.”
    With an effort, Arthur pulled away from the hand guiding him to a chair and stopped, eagerly searching the room with his eyes. At last, spying an older woman with greying hair seated in an easy chair near the fire, he staggered forward, dropping to his knees beside her and burying his face in her lap, crying, “Mother! Oh Mother! Mother!” while his shoulders shook with great sobs.
    The hands that lifted his head trembled and the soft, gentle voice quivered. “Arthur?” It was a tender touch those hands had as they held the tired face so their owner could look deep into the eyes of the wanderer. “Oh it is! It is my boy, my son!” The tears of mother and son mingled together on both cheeks as they held one another in a long, emotional embrace.
    “Oh Mother,” Arthur choked, trying to swallow back his tears, “I . . . I . . . I’ve missed you so!”
    “And I you, my son, my little boy!” Neither mother nor son gave heed to any other around them as they held one another close.
    “Arthur.”
    With a great effort, the traveler wrenched his eyes from his mother’s dear face and looked up. His father was standing beside the chair, tears trickling down his cheeks. Suddenly Arthur noticed that his father had aged. There were many lines upon that dear face which had not been there when he left. “Father . . .” his voice quivered, “will, . . . will you take me back?”
    In answer the father’s arms reached out and pulled him into such a strong yet tender embrace that the son never forgot it, while he whispered in a voice husky with emotion, “This my son was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found. Oh, Heavenly Father, I thank you!”
    Arthur felt his knees start to buckle and he swayed.
    “Here, Father,” he heard the young man who had brought him in say. “Let John and me help him to the chair, he’s exhausted. Do you have that coffee, Katie?” Strong arms supported him across to the easy chair and Arthur heard the voice again. “Here, Art, drink some of this. It’s a chilly night to be out and about.”
    Blinking in the glare of the fire, Arthur took a swallow of the hot coffee and then looked earnestly at the young man before him. “Davy?”
    “Yes, Art, it’s me,” answered the young man who had discovered him on the porch, as he took the coffee cup from the hands that trembled. “Welcome home, brother,” he said quietly and grasped the cold hands held out to him.

If you write stories, what is your most difficult part to write?

Are you enjoying this story?

Have you gotten much snow this winter?