It’s the first church that I see in this damn wilderness. I don’t know the denomination, but one tends to overlook such things when one’s feet threaten to get blisters.
Pushing open the door I find myself in a the most beautiful garden. Flowers, of every conceivable colour, of no particular kind, wild, fragrant, joyous.
I wander around like Alice in Wonderland.
Finally, someone. He’s watering the iris.
Excuse me, where is the church?
I mean, where is the actual church?
All around you.
Is there a priest around here? I figure there is no point in asking him.
I am the gardener.
My feet are really killing me. Look Sir, I am searching for the church.
Why can this not be it?
No alter! No congregation! No choir! Duh!
God’s earth. Flowers bearing testimony to his grace. Hymns sung by rustling leaves.
I sink down to my knees amidst the lilies and petunias. Soft grass comfort my feet, as a gentle breeze caresses my hair. I close my eyes in prayer completely embraced by His love.
In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of August 26, 2018, based on a photo by John Brand