Lady in Flames Read Online Free Page A

hell-hole? There’s no way to tell. The weak glow from frosty windows betrays nothing about what misery lives within.
    Just yesterday I was speaking with one of the farmers who raise corn. He found his wife to be unfaithful and wasn’t sure he wanted to live anymore. They have three little ones at home…
    It’s hard to console a man when something he holds dear is ripped from him. The sanctity of his family, sullied and disrupted, may never be mended. I prayed with him.
    Last week it was a woman whose son stole her roll of twenties she kept saved in a shoe box. He shoved her out of the way when confronted about it. She’s more worried he might be on drugs than she is of mounting bills.
    The general lack of respect characterized by today’s youth is alarming. Even more so is their lack of humanity. Around town, reports run rampant of how groups of them seem to randomly select someone for a beating. The first, several weeks ago, was an isolated incident. The second was a signal that something wasn’t right.
    This sick, mindless collusion has no reason about it. What is the profit? What is gained? There is no theft, no motivation for revenge apparent in their actions. How far off-center must they be to lash out at their fellow man for nothing more than what appears to be an angst-ridden disdain for society?
    “The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.” Truer words were never written, but even the psalmist asked, “How long will my enemy triumph over me?”
    I don’t know whether my toils have any efficacy here. The moral fabric of man continues to disintegrate and the Lord’s people lose their foothold. There is no vivacity, no zeal for the Word, and the number of the faithful dwindles. When should I shake the dust off my feet and leave?
    I feel I’ve arrived to find life so deadened as to never see the light of the sun again. The primary reason for us to exist, to fellowship with the Lord in all of our being, is lost in the hearts of nearly all. The fire of our souls needs stoking. I just don’t know if I’m the man to do it.
    Again, I’m shackled by doubt, a doubt so inconsolable I feel as if it’s in the room with me when I wake up. It tails me as I tread this worn-out road. When I stand up to preach, it sits in a pew, glaring back at me.
    What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t my calling? Can I leave these people to themselves, to feed and fend off each other? Is Halgraeve lost for good?
    These questions plague me without answer. I’ve prayed for direction, but nothing is clear. The weight of my uncertainty is like the icy overhangs on these gutters, layer upon layer built up over time, threatening to tear down under the heaviness of their presence.
    I trudge on, fits of insecurity undermining my search for hope. My feet continue to swish through the slush until I’m sure I hear rapid steps behind me, but I look over my shoulder to see nothing at all.
    It must be the wind. The snow muffles much of the sound of a sleeping town, so even the slightest rustling is noticed. I remain on my path until I hear the crunching of heavy steps again. Halting, I spin around.
    Nothing. I peer into the shadows cast by one-story homes, the spaces unreached by the glow of the streetlights, but there isn’t any movement. Satisfied, I turn and resume my walk.
    Crunching again, this time multiple sets of feet in rapid succession, pounding down the crisp snow. Those wayward children—the ones responsible for those attacks—they are at once very real to me. I’m certain I can hear their panting and whispered threats.
    I lean into my stride even harder than normal, shoving the earth behind me in a strained gallop. The creases in my pocket-shrouded palms gush sweat. Juvenile fears of being chased home after school come streaking back.
    “Cripple boy! Cripple boy!” those far-off taunts ring out in my memory. This silly return to childhood