The Used-To-Be-Green Plastic Crate | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: The Used-To-Be-Green Plastic Crate | Previous Challenge Entry
By Christina Curtis
11/16/07
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES

It used to be green, this plastic crate. It was something your eyes would skip if you scanned the empty parking garage. Your attention would more likely find itself fastened on the deceptive vines that had crept their way beneath the small window-like gap and into the basement level. They gave the place an eerie feel, twisting their way up the long forgotten, crumbling pillars. The plastic crate sat pushed up against a lighter corner or the building, the few rays of sunlight has bleached it a yellow gray color and the plastic was freeing itself fiber by fiber from its lattice prison to be lost in the dank grime of the place. It was the farthest thing from a real pulpit, and you never would have guessed it was one. But it did just fine for their underground church and there was always something holy about it. Piled around the crate were large chunks of cement, mostly parking bumpers long since freed from their bonds. If you walked into the place early Sunday morning, just as the golden light peeked over the slums, you’d find a ragtag bunch of teenagers. They’d be looking as though they hadn’t showered for weeks, probably because they hadn’t. There were around twelve now, the number had slowly inched its way up from three. It was unlikely, the whole thing. John Harland was an unlikely type to be a missionary, and the place was an unlikely place to have a missionary, much less a church. But they made it, every Sunday somehow. John didn’t ask questions. He has known not to ask questions from the very first moment he looked into their eyes, really looked. It was most important to be here for them, to come every Sunday and feed them the food they were so ravenous for and listen to them if they ever wanted to answer the questions he’d never had to ask. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about John, nothing that would make the teens flock to this solitary place, and he knew it was God who brought them. They brought their masks every week still, but John was waiting, telling them about love. If anyone had reason to be cautious it was these teens, so he didn’t hold it against them. This week he sat on the pulpit and prayed, going over and over his notes asking God for the words that he could never come up with alone. There was something different about this morning. Teens trickled in slowly, filling up the empty places, and a tension hung in the air. He could tell, so John wasn’t surprised when Sammy, a young Latino boy of about seventeen walked slowly into the room carrying a white bundle. The livid piercing wail of a baby echoed off the concrete. He set each foot down heavily and seemed to have a hard time keeping his balance, making his way up to John, face fixed on the ground and gloom scurrying beside him. The missionary uncrossed his knees and sat up, setting the bible aside and accepting the small bundle as it was thrust into his arms. Collapsing wearily to his knees, Sammy stared up at the missionary with tear filled eyes and whispered, “She’s gone. She’s gone and I’ve got not idea how to raise a son.” John wrapped his free arm around the silently sobbing boy, the baby still wailing indignantly. Walls finally broken down, the rest of the group slowly gathered around one by one and they prayed together, desperately clinging to the only place left that had hope. When they raised their heads, Sammy looked straight into his eyes with hope. “Pastor I know what you’ve been telling me, I know it’s true and I can’t afford to be selfish anymore.” He looked down to hide the tears clouding his eyes once again. “I want God to teach me how to be a Father, so my son will grow up different than I did.” The missionary only had to nod. At the pulpit that Sunday, the service went on much longer than expected. The crumbling concrete walls of the parking garage were not the only walls crumbling that day, the people left with hope.

PREVIOUS ENTRY | NEXT ENTRY
SUBMIT YOUR ENTRY FOR THIS WEEK'S CHALLENGE

The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.

If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be right now. CLICK HERE

JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.