“Lord, have mercy.”

“Lord, have mercy.”

All around her, the teen heard the horrifying sounds of death and misery. There was nothing she could do about it. 

Helpless, Rhea herself lay prostrate on the gritty dirt in front of her tent, gasping for air. Her long, shimmering hair lay tangled around her tanned face, which was wrenched with anguish. Her woven shawl had fallen away from her slim shoulders that trembled from the venom rapidly coursing through her body.

A slim, iridescent snake slithered past her glazed brown eyes, triggering the fading memory of being painfully bitten by a mad serpent that morning in bed. With great effort, the girl cried out in desperation.

“Lord, have mercy!”

The poison had completely circulated through her body, causing excruciating agony. If only they had listened to Moses and hadn’t complained, then the Israelites wouldn’t be in such misery now. Tears drew paths down her dusty face as she remembered the lifeless forms of her parents and siblings just a few hours before.

Gritting her teeth, Rhea felt a shudder go through her whole weakened body. She knew she didn’t have much time left…

Suddenly, crunching footsteps came to a stop in front of the slowly dying girl.

“My dear, if you wish to be healed, then all you have to do is cast your eyes upon the serpent on the brazen pole.” She faintly heard Moses’ melodious and deep voice vibrating in the air.

His footsteps crunched away…leaving her to think. Of course she wanted to be healed, but how would looking at a brass statue of a snake help her? It seemed like a cruel joke.

But then again, what did she have to lose?

So, with the very last of her energy, Rhea lifted her eyes up to the shining pole.
Based on Numbers 21:5-9  

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The Eyes of Music

He was just a young boy – he didn’t deserve to go through so much at such a tender age. Anyone could look into his deep brown eyes and sense the sadness reflected there. When his parents divorced, the young boy’s heart was shattered. His grades suffered in school, and he saw no point to learning. He developed an attitude…and this continued until his mother realized that her son needed help. And that’s when the boy fell into the world of music.

He never imagined that a piece of delicately carved wood could interest him, but that’s what he started doing – he was given a cello and a bow, and he started practicing. He had fallen deeply in love with music – a love that would never fade. It was a way to express his pent-up feelings as never before. As the boy grew more skillful, his life began to change. His grades began rising again as he developed a more hopeful outlook on life.

The boy began joining various orchestras and community music organizations, all the while studiously learning in school – even taking honors classes. His repertoire expanded as his talent grew. When he played, it was as if he was one with the cello, and the cello with him. Several years later, he is in the teenage years, and the talented boy continues on in his musical journey. Now, he has hopes. Dreams. Hopes of becoming a professional future – dreams of getting into colleges and academies that would help him on his musical career.

If you look into his eyes today, they aren’t the same eyes as they were several years ago. Sure, there are still traces of sorrowfulness from his childhood – but now…there is light. There is love – for music, and for life.

And a young, ordinary girl in this cellist’s orchestra saw all this. She saw the changed life of the young cellist – how much he had to go through to get to where he was today. It inspired her, and she decided to write this post to remind the world that anything is possible if you work hard for it.

Anything.

 

#truestory

The Old Choir Room

 

It’s just a room. In fact, it’s a choir room, tucked away in the farthest corner of the old church at the intersection. In this room are empty black chairs, arranged in a semi circle, with empty black music stands in front of them. The air is usually heavy with dusty silence.

It’s just an old choir room. It has been almost completely forgotten, if it were not for what happens once every week.

Once a week, the old choir room comes alive. 15 young people, none alike, fill this room each week. They bring with them black cases of all sorts of sizes: big, small, medium. In those black cases lies power, the power that revives the old choir room and brings it to life again.

Every week, the empty black chairs are filled with young people.

The music stands are crowded with sheet music.

And best of all, the air is no longer silent for the next one and a half hours.

Instead, it is filled with the sounds of string instruments, of the sounds of young people playing their heart out. Each of them is so different and unique, but they all share a common bond: their passionate love for music. Why they chose such a dusty, forgotten choir room to practice in is an intriguing question, perhaps one that we will never know the answer to. They could easily have chosen some other room – one that is more convenient to practice in and isn’t so old. But all we know is that, once a week, the old choir room comes alive with MUSIC.

And the legend of the old choir room lives on.

 

That Girl Over There

 

I promise I didn’t destroy the kitchen.

Once upon a time (actually yesterday), C and I were bored at home. We made granola.
The end.

Okay, okay! You want to know the rest of the story? Okay, sit quietly and I’ll tell you the rest of the story. So what happened was that we were at home and C was hanging around, bored.
“Why don’t we make granola?” She suggested hopefully. Inwardly and outwardly, I groaned. Most times I cook/bake/craft something with her, it ends up taking twice as long as I thought it would. And also twice as disorganized. But I, trying to be a great big sister, agreed. “Okay. Why don’t you cut up the almonds first?”
“Yay!” She squealed and ran to do my bidding. (Hee hee — by the way, cutting almonds is the longest part;) In about half an hour, we had conjured up a bowl of granola that was four times what the recipe called for. Hey, we I eat a lot, okay? So we, being two happy girls, gleefully popped three pans of granola into the oven. Proudly, I closed the oven door. “Three whole pans of granola!”
C sighed in satisfaction. “We could start a bakery,” she imagined.
“Yeah, right. Come on, let’s go play.”
I set the timer for 25 minutes, and we scampered off to play outside in the beautiful weather. In the middle of a soccer skirmish, C stopped and sniffed the air.
“Wait, do you smell that? It smells like something’s burning.” I gulped as I, too, smelled the same burnt smell wafting through the air. In one instant, I realized what happened.
“HURRY!” I screamed, running toward the door and flinging my body inside. Faster than the speed of light, I flashed into the kitchen opened the oven door and yanked out the three trays.
“Oh. Oh, no no no no!!!!”
“It’s BURNT!” shrieked C. Cautiously I looked closer. This was the first batch of granola that I’ve ever made that turned to complete charcoal. Thankfully, not the whole pan was burnt. So it was my task (I wonder why) to tediously pick out the granola-now-charcoal pieces from the pan.   
“Yeah,” I muttered. “We can totally start a bakery.”
Don’t worry! It still tasted good! ;)

Moral: Don’t count your chickens before the eggs hatch. Or in this case, don’t count your pans of granola before they potentially burn.

THE END.

That Girl Over There ~ and tell me in the comments if something like this has ever happened to you!