Room Six

 Room Six

This Inn is a one-of-a-kind place. It’s where dreams are kept and where peace is found. It’s where memories are made and relived. It’s where time stands still and your mind finds solace. 

It’s nestled right on the banks of the Cape Fear River in a small, beautiful North Carolina town. It only has eight rooms, each with its own charm. Six of the rooms have a semi-private porch divided by some wooden slats that go almost to the ground. The old wooden porch swing is my favorite. Each of the riverside rooms has one. They still use keys for the rooms. 

This quaint place is named The Riverside.

This time we stayed in room number six for the entire week. Upon arrival, we were greeted by our host who told us, “If you need something, just call me. The keys are on the table in the room.” 

We were unloading the car for what seemed like an eternity. I complained as usual, and Lisa just looked at me and smiled. As the event continued, other thoughts began to unpack in my mind. I wondered who was staying in room five or room seven. These are all the things I think about when staying in an inn. I think if you played the song, “Hotel California” by Eagles, it would match the Inn. As the song says, “you can check out, but you can never leave.” 

As we were finishing the unloading process, the door to room seven opened, and a younger couple emerged. They looked like they were in their forties. I made eye contact, and I shook hands with my eyes. Only a few people will ever get this. It’s a silent gift that some have. You can have a complete conversation with just your eyes, and we did. It went like this to the both of them, “Hello, how are you? You’re in seven, and we are in six. Good to meet you; we can chat later…then blink. 

Well, wouldn’t you know it. I got sick that week and was unable to do anything. So, while Lisa went to walk each day, I sat on the old porch swing and enjoyed that breeze that came off the river from the ocean. I was working on a previous story titled, “Oh Snap.” It’s what I call a dark story, but it has a hopeful ending. As I pressed through it, I realized that room seven was out on their porch. They were extremely quiet, not conversing much.

I mustered up enough strength to get to the swing each day to focus and write the story I was working on. I usually wear headphones and listen to what I call my writing music, but for some reason, I decided to listen to the peaceful sounds of nature. The swing would rock back and forth and back and forth. I had my laptop out, writing what I thought was a masterpiece. I laugh at myself, saying that because each story I write is not for you but for me; it’s a release of emotions that brings healing to me every time. In the back of my mind, I hope these stories will help someone. 

Lisa had gone on another long walk about midday. I was in the swing writing and enjoying the sun, and then I heard the door to room seven open and close. I heard the lady talking on the phone. The man was already sitting on the porch. I could see his feet dangling. I couldn’t make out what she was saying other than, “Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent?”

The wind had silence in it, as if I was supposed to hear something. There were no boats, no people, no birds, no nothing, just her saying, “Are you sure?” She told the caller, “Okay.” 

There was silence like I’ve never heard. I was still trying to focus on the actual story I was fully involved in. It was so difficult to focus. She then told her husband, “The test results are in, and I am terminal. The cancer has taken a turn, and there is no hope of recovery; I am terminal. I have two weeks to live.” She joined him on the swing, both feet dangling in the sun, barely touching the ground. They pushed back and forth and back and forth.

He got up and walked into the yard by the river, looking up as if he was asking God Himself for help. I could see the distress in his countenance. She joined him with a beautiful hug in the sunlight as to say, it’s going to be okay. We’re going to be ok. They both started to walk back to room seven, and our eyes took yet another handshake. It’s going to be ok, I said. You are going to make it; I promise you that. Never underestimate the power of the eyes, the look, the glance, the stare, the hug, the kiss, and the touch. It’s all real and it brings comfort. They knew what I was saying; they understood. I had overheard a conversation that wasn’t meant for me, but it now involved me.

Later that evening, Lisa and I were swinging on that old porch swing in room six, overlooking the Cape Fear River. I had not told her what I had heard earlier that day, as I was still processing everything. Lisa is a cancer survivor, so this is a very sensitive topic for her. I had finished writing my story and shared it with her. She always gives great insight into my stories, and as we chatted about the story, it led to a very common conversation for us.

We started talking about what we always talk about, things of life. As we stared at the stars in the heavens and the waters all around us, we talked about God; we talked about Jesus and the peace and life He brings to us every day. We talked about the plans He has for us, and the future He has for us. We talked about how His amazing grace brought us from where we were to where we are today. We talked about His saving grace and why we are who we are. This is a regular conversation for us. 

I then shared with her what I had heard from room seven. Lisa was so torn; she wanted to go over and pray with them to bring some hope and some type of rescue to them but realized this was their battle. If they needed to include us, then only God would make that happen. We agreed to pray right then and there for them. We prayed out loud on that porch swing outside room six for those in room seven. PLEASE GOD HAVE MERCY ON THEM. MAY YOUR WILL BE DONE. IF THEY DON’T KNOW YOU, THEN LEAD THOSE THAT WILL SHOW THEM THE WAY. AMEN.

With that, we went to bed that evening, not sleeping too much. I was feeling better the next day and got up a bit early. I noticed that room seven was packing up the car and preparing to leave. At the Riverside, it’s not unusual to have both the front and back doors open at the same time. As I stood in my doorway with my sweet Lisa by my side, we all shook hands again with our eyes. Saying to them, we love you; it’s going to be okay. We will be here if you need us and, most importantly, we love you!

Not knowing who they were, we often included them in our prayers. A year has passed now, and we are back for our annual vacation time, a celebration of our love and our restoration. I’ll include that in another story.

This year, as it happened, we were staying in room six. We were unloading, and in the back of our minds, we were wondering about room seven. We got all settled in. The sun was bright, and the wind was blowing ever so softly. 

I peered over to the porch at room seven and noted it was empty. Then I heard a door close. I rushed back to my place on the porch, sitting on the swing, hoping that room seven was occupied.

A man came out and sat on the swing. I could see his feet moving back and forth. He started talking to someone. I was wondering if it was him and hoping that the doctors were wrong. 

I stopped, got up quietly, and walked out into the yard toward the river. A voice came from room seven’s porch. I turned and it was him. He greeted me with a very soft, “Hello.” I returned the greeting. He just stared at me as if to say something and finally said, “You were here last year about this time, right?” 

I said, “Yes, we were.” I didn’t act dumb; I knew she didn’t make it. 

We made it past the introductions, and he told me the whole story about her cancer, her diagnosis, and the final two weeks of her life. Our eyes engaged, and once again, we communicated in silence. He then said, “I have a letter here for you. She wrote it and sealed it up before she passed, with the hopes of me one day seeing you again to deliver it.” 

And the letter read:

Dear Room Six, 

I know we only shook hands with our eyes, but I overheard you and your sweet Lisa, as you called her, talking. I heard you talking about this God and this Jesus that brings peace and hope to your souls. I did hear you talking about a life everlasting and a life in this place called heaven. I wanted you to know that in the last two weeks of my life, God has brought some amazing people into my life. They have shared with me this love of Jesus. I overheard you room six, and I am thankful that I did. Thanks to you, room six, my husband now understands and has this same hope. 

He knows God’s plan for him is to prosper and not harm him. He knows his future is even brighter with this everlasting love. If you are reading this now, you know I overheard. For that, I am grateful beyond words. See you soon!

Signed, 

Room Seven

With that, you never know the power of the spoken word. Choose wisely.

www.sandwestedit.com 

A Tale Of Souls Cities

 A Tale Of Souls Cities

Greetings from Souls City, the haven for the lost and forgotten. We’ve dwelled here for ages, and I am the spokesman, your point of contact from here on out. If you attempt to breach our realm, even by familial ties, you may be banned from any future contacts. 

We comprise a tight-knit colony of lost souls, often questioned about our purpose. Our mission is to collect the forgotten of the two cities. Some call us the trash collectors of sorts. Are these souls truly discardable refuse? To some, perhaps. Yet they are more than just trash; they are the overlooked and the disregarded. Our task is to gather those souls who are lost and forgotten. Who decides their status? Some say it’s humanity, but others would say fate. But regardless, our duty is to rescue these souls.

There are those who say there is another city that collects the righteous and the ones who are called to a purpose and have hope. I’ve asked about this place, and I haven’t received a conformation that this city exists. I believe it does. I’m considering venturing out of my city limits to conduct a more comprehensive investigation. As I have mentioned before, I am the spokesman for Souls City, so it seems fitting that I would be the one to deliver any news of a potential tale of two cities to the community. 

So, with that being said, I pack up and gather my tools and supplies to make the trip. Souls City is a desolate land; there is no green grass, no green trees, and no colors of any kind; It’s just black and white. That defines our position in humanity. We are lost in color, and only think in yes or no. There is no gray here. Our minds are bound to the present, and there is a limited vocabulary. There are several words that are foreign in our land and one of them is hope. Souls City is devoid of hope, and that’s okay for now. We have dwelt in hopelessness for years, and that doesn’t seem to bother anyone here. So why change? 

Finally, I’m all packed up. I have everything I need to make this exploration. There are a handful of souls here to see me off. In the depths of their being, I sense a yearning for me to return with the story of a city overflowing with promise. 

A city that is hopeful and a city that brings life to humanity. In the deepest part of my being, I desire this as well. That’s the purpose of my exploration. 

I take my first steps toward the unknown. You don’t need much when you have no hope. All you need is a little of this and a little of that. When there is no hope and no promise of tomorrow, it doesn’t take much to transport you to the next place. 

I’ve been walking this path for days now, and I still haven’t found a city of hope. I’ve traveled east and west. I’ve been north and south, but still no sign of a new city. The land here is as barren as the North Sea. There is nothing but wave after wave of hopelessness. I thought I knew what an absence of hope was until this exploration. I mentioned that hope is not a word in Souls City, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know about it. 

After several months, I still see no trace of this city some claim exists. At this point, I haven’t surrendered hope—not that I had much to lose to begin with. How long is this going to take? I wasn’t sure, but it really doesn’t matter at this point, anyway. Even finding my way back seems improbable. I am in a land that is so desperate that the sand makes conversation to stay in existence.  

Years have elapsed since then. The count eludes me, yet I know my absence isn’t consequential to those in Souls City. Well, perhaps a few of those souls might be on the lookout for me, though that’s likely my hopelessness speaking. As the years have passed, I have persisted day by day and week by week, searching for that elusive city that might bring hope. If such a place exists, perhaps they know the location of Souls City and can point me back in that direction. I am not only lost, but completely dead to myself. Some may deem it hopeless, but to me, it’s simply life. 

As I look ahead, about to take what seems like my last breath, I notice something in the distance. Step after step, day after day, I have inched closer to this city’s edge. I collapse by the sign that reads, “Hopeful City – Where Lives Are Changed and Grace is Given Freely.” I found it! I found it! Tears stream down my face and flood my soul. Is this real? Hope flows into my soul, bringing new life into my weary body, just from reading the sign at the city limits. I am exhausted and crushed but given new life at this moment. 

I have found this new city—a place of stories woven with grace and mercy, a haven of hope. Its inhabitants rush out to meet me, eager to know where I have traveled from. My answer is simple. “I’ve traveled a long distance over many years from a place devoid of hope. That place, Souls City, needs you all. They live in a city that doesn’t have hope.” They recognized the name of the city; its where they all came from many years ago. With that, they all band together and load up to make a trip back to Souls City to share with the people the reason for their hope. 

So, it turns out the tale of two cities is true. There is hope through mercy and grace. While they may appear parallel in nature, only one focuses on the vertical dimension. In this vertical alignment, we discover the source of hope, mercy, and grace.    

www.sandwestedit.com        

Oh Snap

 Oh Snap

Oh snap! Before I knew it, I found myself at the bottom of a pit. It happened overnight, leaving me bewildered. I hadn’t experienced that feeling in several years. There was no tail spin or spiral; I simply woke up to find myself in a pit of despair.

I was not just exhausted; I was in a place that I could only hope to emerge from once again. It’s a constant battle to break free from this place. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about. 

As I looked around in this dark pit, I noticed it was a cylinder about six feet in circumference, and the walls were made of a type of dark, slippery mud. The mud was streaming down the pit, and I knew it was going to be a struggle to get to the top. Could I make it out? I wasn’t sure this time. 

I glanced upwards, searching for any sign of light, and there, in the distance, a dim light flickered. It felt incredibly far away, almost unreachable. I felt lost, my heart heavy with pain, uncertain if I would survive. My head just sunk and my eyes closed, questioning the impact of this evil and the weight of my human emotions. Will I even live?

Lisa saw something in me early that morning and asked me if I was okay. I assured her I was just fine. In my heart, I believed God’s love was giving me the will to survive. My only hope was in my redeemer, trusting that I would come out of this dark and lonely place. I know His name holds power and can break any stronghold.

The walls were so thick and the climb out would be one of the most difficult of all time. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been equipped with the tools to face the walls of this darkness.

Lisa continued to press me for clarity, checking in with me hour by hour. It became increasingly frustrating, not just navigating out of the pit but also seeing the love of my life trying to rescue me from it. She understood where I was; she has a special way about her. She threw me a lifeline in the pit, but I couldn’t see it—it was too dark. 

Has anyone reading this ever experienced a similar place of despair? I was in pain, but I knew I was not alone in the pit. I knew that there was another presence with me in the darkness. 

As the hours passed during that day, it seemed I was living a dual life. A life of despair and a life of hope. As I grabbed the lifeline of hope and spoke the name of Jesus, I slowly made my way out of this pit of the strongholds that had held me captive. 

The darkness had not prevailed that time. Lisa asked me one more time if I was okay. My answer was very simple, “I am.” I told her about the intense battle I had faced within myself that day, in a pit deeper than any I had ever known. She understood and explained she had been praying for me. 

She prayed I could break every stronghold and emerge victorious! That I did! As the power, known to only a few, lifted me out of the pit, I didn’t struggle to reach the top but emerged victorious, not by my own strength, but by the power of Jesus. These broken pieces, buried deep in the pit, were brought to life by a light I hope you can also find, as I did. 

I need to be real with you here; it was never me, but Him. I have been given invaluable tools by a remarkable person who understands humans like no one I have ever known. She perceives every thought and its impact on my emotional well-being. With her guidance, I’ve learned to navigate the exhaustion, stress, and pain of life. Coupled with the faith that anchors me, everything falls into place. It’s a delicate balance between faith and human emotions. And then there’s my sweet Lisa, a wonderful and beautiful lifeline who recognized the pit I was in, prayed for me, and encouraged me throughout my darkest hours. 

Coming out of the pit is never easy; it never becomes easy. It is far simpler to fall into it, given our human nature. Our thoughts, emotions, and our spirit must be guarded constantly. Keep looking up; that’s where you will find hope, and HIS grace will restore all the broken pieces. 

www.sandwestedit.com

 

By The Sea

 By The Sea by My Sweet Lisa

By the sea, come be with me.

In the light, we will take flight.

Soaring high, in the sky.

This is the way, we will spend our day.

When evening comes, my love

We will return to the water’s edge.

By the sea, just you and me.

The Writers Museum

 The Writers Museum 

She visited the museum every day, consistently making her way to my exhibit. Sometimes, she brought friends along, purposely guiding them past me, almost as if she was showing me off. Her beauty was striking, with long brown hair and captivating brown eyes that matched her elegant style. Her presence in the museum was intoxicating, like a gentle breeze that enchanted everyone who saw her. 

It was natural for her to come to the museum; after all, she was a talented writer herself. This museum was dedicated to writers, showcasing both the renowned and lesser-known ones; each exhibit was beautifully crafted for each time period. 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry Fawnsworth, and I am an exhibit in this museum. The year is 1817, and I just finished a novel titled “Lisa,” a romantic book that reflects the love of my life. My exhibit is set in a charming wood-laden library that houses all the books of the past centuries. The writer’s desk I occupy is a hand-carved oak piece, surrounded by scattered pages longing for words that elude me. Soft lighting envelops my exhibit, adding a touch of realism to this time period.

I’m dressed in an eloquent black suit paired with a crisp white shirt. My shoes gleam with shiny black leather, matching the hue of my hat. My skin is tan because I loved to sit outside and write. I have a meticulously styled handlebar mustache, waxed up to impress the ladies and make the men jealous. I hold a beautiful writing instrument in my hand that was invented during this century. 

Every day, she stops and stares at me. For hours, she watches me with great intent. I want to speak to her, but I am unable. She’s in the early 1900s, enjoying a progressive era in America. She revels in a life of peace and prosperity. What could I possibly offer her? My hands don’t move, and my speech is confined to the contents of my exhibit. I just sit here day after day, trapped in my realm. Oh, did I mention I am in a different dimension? 

This writer’s museum is different from any other museum. We, as writers, can perceive each other and communicate indirectly, almost as if in another dimension. We observe and comprehend your conversations and written expressions. Occasionally, we have been able to communicate our thoughts to the paper on our desk. So how does that work you may ask? The mechanics behind this phenomenon are a mystery to us; it happens spontaneously and without explanation. It’s a rare occurrence, yet it happens.

Day after day, this beautiful lady comes in. Recently, she even engaged me in conversation; I could hardly hear her because she spoke so softly. She sways back and forth, coming close to breaching the red velvet ropes that surround me. I can smell the beauty in her hair and in her melodious voice. One day, she leaned in so close that a slight breeze caused strands of her hair to brush against my face. 

That’s when it happened. My words in my mind came to life on the paper right under my pen. It was a simple thought that appeared on the paper: “You are so beautiful. Please join me. Signed, Harry.”

She looked down at the paper and couldn’t conceal her shock. It was as if she was frozen for a moment and couldn’t speak or move. She was paralyzed. Oh my, I thought. What have I done? After a few moments, she dashed out of the museum. I was as heartbroken as the novel that I had just completed. It seemed to end the same way; she just ran away.

I looked for her every day; we all did. All of us writers, regardless of our era, rallied around this marvelous story that was being written in real life. Day after day and week after week, there was no sign of her. Was she gone forever?

Then one day, the door to the museum opened; I looked with determination, and it was her. My heart jumped, and my mind was free from the costly mistake I had made, even though it was not my intent but the powerful thought of love I have for this stunning lady. She made her way down that long hallway toward my exhibit, each step deliberate and calculated. As she approached, I could see her scanning the paper below my pen, and the words were still there. Right below my hand were new words, and they read, “I’m sorry.” They had appeared on the paper weeks after she left me. She read them and seemed unfazed. The other writers in the museum watched in awe as this romance unfolded right before them. Was it truly possible to bring another to our world like this? 

She stood there and stared at me for hours. I dared not dwell too deeply on our connection, knowing that each thought could bring new words to the pages in front of me. I could not make the same mistake. I could see her lips moving as she was speaking to me, but not so loudly that I or anyone else could hear her. She left after a few hours and would return day after day, just like in the past. 

Once more, she entered the room. A lanyard hung around her neck from a recent writers’ convention held next door. We were all aware of the convention, which brought in fledgling authors, sharing their words, dreams, and visions. These writers discussed their stories and the impact their words would have on humanity.

As she drew closer to me, I could read her badge. Her name was Lisa. Oh my, I thought. Was she the one who had left me in the last novel I wrote in 1817? There she was—a bombshell wrapped in mystery. What was her last name? You guessed it, Fawnsworth. Who was this exquisite lady? Had she escaped this dimension somehow and left the pages of my last novel in sadness? 

It was her. My sweet Lisa had somehow escaped the pages of my very last novel before I passed. It wasn’t supposed to end that way, but somehow it had to because she was gone. Now, she is found. I can see the love in her eyes—the great salvation that she brings to life, mending the broken. She has brought me to an excitement for life, even in my dimension. There is hope that we can finish the novel with a proper ending. Even though it’s a hundred years later. Is she willing? I’m just not sure.

Once lost, but now found. I’ve been blind, but now I can envision this beauty in front of me. 

My sweet Lisa continued to return day after day and watch me and the paper beneath my hands, waiting for a message. A sign to come back, a signal to return to her love. 

One day the curator of the museum placed an empty chair right beside me. I wasn’t sure why or what he was doing. He was acting as if I needed a new addition to the exhibit. This frustrated me, but I had no say in the matter because I was just an exhibit; I was honored to be in the mist of the best writers in the world. That empty chair stayed that way for months.

Lisa continued to visit day after day, and I could see she was perplexed by the empty chair as well. Because of my frustration, the words just appeared on the pages in front of me and they inked, “Will you join me, Lisa?” Oh my, what will she think when she comes in today? Will she run again? Will she never return? It was time; it’s been long enough. She will either join me or never raise to life this story that needs to end the right way. 

She appears—a picture of amazing grace and exquisite beauty. She is void of judgement, unyielding in her love, and always accepting those full of fault. She looks at the chair and then looks at the page in front of me and sees the words, “Will you join me, Lisa?”

She speaks in a gentle voice, but I can’t understand her. She steps over the red velvet rope beside me, places her hand on mine, and says, “Yes, I will join you.” She sits beside me in the chair. 

The pages come to life now, speaking all the words of grace that abound. I’ve laid myself down to bring the broken to life. Lisa is back now, and she now knows that His grace is sufficient. How sweet the sound of what is now being written. As she sits beside me, she comes to the dimension of grace and love. The place where she is going and where she belongs. She’s been set free. 

It’s the writer’s museum where stories are written every day and where the lost are found and new beginnings start. Come by and visit. That empty chair might change your life. Will you sit?

www.sandwestedit.com