Creative Writing: Fourth Street Church

I stood in front of the Fourth Street Church, my skin tingling in anticipation of the twin bells tolling. Nana, holding Mom’s arm for support, gazed up at the bell tower. She loved hearing the bells. In fact, she’d once told me the bells were the heart of the church, its life-giving force. I felt the same way.

Carson, true to form, was making faces at some boy next to us. But even my baby brother was looking forward to the big event.

A large crowd had gathered, chatting noisily about how the bells had been recovered. I caught bits and pieces of the comments:

“Can you believe the bells were found in some extraterrestrial graveyard?”

“You don’t tell. I understand the place is haunted.”

“By alien beings?”

“What else?”

“I heard the thieves contracted some sort of illness from touching the boulders there. It weakened them, allowing those kids to get away.”

And so it went.

I chuckled to myself. The rumor mill in Springdale was indeed alive and well.

Bo walked up to me, looking sharp in khakis and a blue

In his journal writings, I never detected a note of complaint or self-pity. Even when it was clear the South was losing the Civil War. Even when he failed in his mission of delivering the gold. Even when he lost his infant daughter.

“It’s easy to judge the Israelites,” Dad said, “but don’t we do the same thing today? When we become so focused on our discomforts and trials, or those of our loved ones, that we are blinded to God’s blessings in our lives? Until we can trust in God—recognizing that He is sovereign and that His plans for us are always good—we will never truly be thankful.”

I was reminded of the theft of the twin bells and how awful I’d thought that was. But hadn’t good come out of that? Donny Reynolds had turned his life around. The reward money for finding the gold would enable Matt’s family to move out of Slum City and maybe get his father started in his own restaurant. The money would also help mine and Bo’s