Lady in Flames Read Online Free

I’ve manned the pulpit at the Shepherd Church and even longer before then; it’s what enables me to stand before the congregation and deliver His bold message with confidence. I pray those in worship won’t see a broken man, but rather the grace of God.
    Every Sunday, the parishioners file into the sanctuary, their tired feet plodding heavy along the warped, wooden floorboards. They plant themselves at irregular intervals in the stiff pews, withered husks carrying an uneven but sincere tune. They’re my flock, entrusted to me by the Lord.
    The church doesn’t have a parsonage. Each night after I finish my study of the Word, I read through the list of prayer requests for the week, then lock the hefty door and shove off for home.
    My spartan apartment is a two-mile trek from doorstep to doorstep. Blistering sun or deadened cold, I make the trip twice a day, six days a week. On Sunday we have morning and evening services, so I commit myself to the road four times on those days.
    Only the piercing cold stands guard tonight. I continue to push hard along the berm, carving a broken trail through the dirty snow as I cross into the square nestled in the center of town. A lamppost on each corner illuminates humble glass storefronts, a glimmer of a simpler time.
    To the left, a handful of bars sit clustered together like they’re up to no good. Working my way past the squalid Ale House, I’m reminded that Sunday attendance is hurting, as is the offering plate. There isn’t much to go around lately, though it seems people still make time for drink—raucous music and mixed voices burble behind a fogged window.
    Next door is Lady Luck, another sorry pit. Brick-red corrugated metal siding wraps the length of the popular dive. Two smokers linger near the door, swapping stories of an explicit nature. They only offer a passing glance.
    That’s usually what I merit—a quick, unconcerned look. Sometimes their eyes will say, “Don’t come near me, Preacher. I’ve got no use for religion.” Most people know who I am and leave me be whatever their reasons.
    I can’t force people to believe. They’re either searching or they aren’t. No matter what sense of misery grips someone, whatever depth of shame, there’s still some rebel independence coursing through their veins.
    We’re all guilty of that, of course. It’s Man’s way. Trying to mend the broken relationship between God and humanity is a burden under which I often stumble. Stuck in the mire with shaky hands, I have nothing but the Cross to cling to.
    I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been clinging as hard as I should. Toiling away at my calling, I feel as if I’m a lone beacon of light in a dismal, murky world. How long until I’m snuffed out?
    The muffled clamor of the bars behind me, I shrug my overcoat closer round my neck. Halgraeve is rotting from the inside out. It suffers from a spiritual blight as old as the dirt-caked foundations on which this square is built.
    Godless generations hand down their lustful inheritance, gluttonous heirlooms of greed. Borderline addicts slip into the dregs of despair. Hopelessness maintains a chokehold on those who would find solace in a well-being they may never recover.
    The moral decay of this town is as varied as the pock-marked asphalt, but it all stems from love of self. Disregard for one’s fellow man and an all-consuming glorification of one’s own deeds is what has this place so steeped in sin.
    I came to town with canvas duffle in hand and a few hundred dollars in my pocket. I walked as much of it as I could and tried to get a feel for what cried out for salvation. Where was the Lord leading me? Could I make an impact here? The run-down century homes, the idle farms, and the lonely shut-ins—they all spoke to me in a voice clear and true: Save us.
    The quiet gloom is still here. Now past the square, cramped homes creep up onto the road on either side. Which of them houses abuse? Which reeks of alcohol? Which is a