It was 11:15 P.M.

The words, The Story, prodded me from REM sleep, despite exhaustion from the day’s challenges clinging to every pore of my old body. I was to write, now, not in tomorrow’s daylight.

After I swallowed lemon water from my Sippy-cup, I tossed aside the covers with my foot, lunged to a sitting position on the side of my bed, toppled onto my lap, and in silent pleas complained. I was to write, repeated the Source. Then, I flipped on the lamp, grabbed my wheeled walker, made it to my word processor, and waited for words to come.

The butterscotch sun bathed planet Earth revolving on its axis. Its people of every color and ethnic background cycled through each day, from sunup to sundown. The pattern was always the same: waking, washing, eating, working, exercising, preparing for sleep; disease, discord, and violence marred the land. Such had been the human family’s experience for eons.

Yet, The Story would be told, in shimmering tones like a summer evening’s wind chimes carried upon gentle breezes, from house to house, from hi-rise to hi-rise. No one would not hear it. It began, almost imperceptibly at first, then in gentle tones until the unique voice of each each clapper sweetened psyches: smiles gentled clinched jaws, breath inflated taxed lungs, hands opened to offer help, feet came to the assistance of the needy.

 Change was occurring. Laughter and storytelling quickened imaginations, resolved tensions, cheered the dissolute. Gone were the locks on hearts and front doors. The day’s hardships and surprises swelled those gathered around supper tables. Everyone anticipated more life lessons culled in dreams.

Lest anyone forget the sound of the wind chimes, everyone strung their own and hung them from porches, or wherever. Braided harmonies told The Story, over and over again—The land rollicked with Peace.

I’ve heard The Story. It’s about God’s dream for the world.