“Under a Basket”

By: Hannah Stiff   Word Count: 989

It was Elaine and Gerald MacIsaac’s turn to host, which meant service was held in a damp root cellar. Adults sat in plastic lawn chairs grouped in the center, while around them, children perched on large, overturned baskets Elaine used for storing apples.

Being twenty one, I was granted the privilege of a chair. I ignored its arthritic squeaking as our lead elder, Terry Donahue, addressed the congregation.

  “Where’s Sasha and the baby?” His opening words rang like an alarm, trained eyes immediately picking the absentees out.

   “Sick.” Maurice Poirier called out. “I didn’t want them coming and spreading it here, so—”

  “Of course, of course.” Terry waved his hands disarmingly and attempted an easy smile, but the creases on his forehead stayed. I wondered what he’d look like without them. Half dressed probably. “Everyone came by way of the back field, right?”

   Terry asked the same question whenever we met at the Carters’. We all nodded and a short, abrupt exhale followed beside me. I looked at Blake Shelton, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He saw me watching him and raised an eyebrow. You ok? I mouthed, but he had already turned away.

  “Well then, this is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it!’ Terry’s voice lifted with his opening benediction. “Do we have any announcements, praise items, prayer requests before we sing our first hymn?”

  “Well, well maybe you all heard ‘bout this, but…” Gerald rose and cast dimming eyes over the assembly. “...Open Hearts Baptist Church has been approved by city council to be turned into a smoke shop.” I heard a lady gasp in horror behind me.

  Open Heart’s former place of worship held no connection for me, unlike the others. I had joined after the Church Closure Act had been put into effect, and all the city churches had been seized and shuttered. Terry’s eyes were bright as he nodded. “God knows, brothers and sisters,” he spoke solemnly. Audible sniffs and angry whispers reigned while Gerald resumed his seat.  “Do we have anything else to share?” Terry’s tone was more subdued now.

 “I do.” 

Blake had quietly stood up, and glancing up at his face, I beheld an odd mixture of conviction and caution swirling on it.

 “I’ve invited a coworker to our church he should be here any minute now.” He blew the sentence out in a rush, like a pitcher throwing a fast ball in hopes the batter would miss. Total silence blanketed the group like a gas. Then Terry walked over to Blake and with a deliberate motion, raised his hand and slapped him in the face.

It shattered the stillness like a thunder clap, and Gerald tottered to his feet. “Terry!” he gasped, and the other two elders jumped up.

  Whatever Blake had been expecting, he surely hadn’t taken into consideration being struck like he was a willful boy. I watched from my place as his face went white, save for his left cheek, which now glowed like a burning coal. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you fool?” Terry murmured in Blake’s face, his seething words sending shivers up my back. “We’re compromised now, compromised! Any second we can expect the police in here, carting us off!”

  Blake flinched at the epithet thrown at him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Terry.

  “If Blake would explain…” an elder began to suggest, but Terry cut him off.

“Yes, let Blake explain to all the men how he’s put their wives and children at risk!” he spoke even softer, the air filling with his slicing accusations. “Blake doesn’t have to worry, he’s a lone ranger, but some of us here have people other than ourselves to care about.”

  “If I’ve done wrong, may God judge me!” Blake cried out with a sudden passion. His outstretched hands shook. “I invited a man out who’s begging for answers! He’s been dragged into HR twice now for his “religious” conversations in the office! He’s got no hope in this sick world and I couldn’t take it any longer! Is that a crime?!”

 “When you endanger people’s lives—” Terry started coldly.

    “His soul’s in danger Terry!” Blake's voice choked, and he looked down for a second. Seeing my face, now streaked with tears, he gestured to my place. “Leanna Chen wouldn’t have found us but for the Petersons!” he declared earnestly. “She isn’t here because she fell down a hole and discovered our church!”

  “That was a year ago!” Terry retorted bitterly. “They’re sentencing us now Blake! You want that for any of us here, huh?”

   “You know I don’t!” Blake exclaimed, the angst pouring out of him like sweat. “But what are we succeeding in here if we keep our Saviour hidden, like,” he spotted an empty apple basket and grabbed it, “...like a light under a bushel!” He held it up for the group to see. “Candles won’t burn when covered. They sputter, and die, and the world is darker for it.” His lips trembled and he slowly put the basket down. “We’re called to shine, on a hill!”

   Blake looked around at us, many of whom were silently crying and nodding, and finally at Terry. The lead elder’s jaw worked and his shoulders lowered. “You…you know how much I want…want all of you safe,” he began hoarsely.

  “We never doubted that Terry,” Maurice spoke, rising from his chair. “But we’ve counted the cost. Sasha and I are ready.”

  “So am I.” I nervously arraigned myself by Blake as I spoke, who half smiled.

The congregation joined us as Terry gripped Blake’s arm. “God grant me your faith Son,” he whispered, when the signal knock at the tiny wooden door sounded. We all tensed and glanced at the lead elder. Clearing his throat, Terry strode to the door and gripped the handle. “In the name of the Lord,” he declared, and pulled it open.

Not Found

Deep in a valley of the mountains, covered by dense fog, black and grey, moisture gathers in the haze around an ancient church, hidden.

Tall poplar trees carefully hide the church, their leaves fading yellow and orange during the cold autumn winds. Through overgrown weeds and no obvious path rests the ancient structure, three hundred and fifty years old.

The church, never hidden. Simply, not meant to be found.

Dark limestone blends with the trees and moss that cover it. Vines tangle through cracks in the stone as nature reclaims what time abandoned. Far in the forest, tucked away from roads or pathways, the church is swallowed by fog that drifts low across the ground like a ghost lingering over it.

Green roots burst through the rocks that line the path, twisting through stone before fading back into the earth around them.

Silence fills the air. Not deliberate silence, but silence with purpose.

Moisture drifts through the valley with the faint sound of leaves brushing together somewhere unseen. On scattered rocks along the path are carvings of scripture, lost in time and never recovered. Moss spreads over the engravings, making secret what was once known.

At the wooden entrance, there is no birdsong, no animal prints pressed into the mud nearby.

Only the distant sound of water dripping into a stream somewhere deeper in the forest. Wind carries the sound gently through the trees until it overwhelms all others.

The doorway stands large and plain. Tall, but not overbearing. A small latch hole rests in its center for a key, while iron hinges hold the heavy door in place.

Inside the chambers of the church, echoes linger longer than they should, as if the building itself refuses to let sound disappear completely.

Candles stand in hardened towers of dripping wax along the narrow halls, burning brightly despite the absence of any soul to tend them. The corridors stretch onward in dim light while deep resonance hums softly through the structure, vibrating through the center of the body.

Deeper into the sanctuary sit unfinished wooden pews, sturdy despite centuries of decay. Scratches mark their backs where countless feet had once rested.

The walls remain bare stone, no different from the exterior. No crosses hang there. No banners. No proclamations of faith. Not even a denomination.

The ceiling stretches upward through both stories of the church. A chandelier hangs from its center, lit only by candles. Simple. Light-bearing. Faithful only to its purpose.

Small holes spread across the roof, allowing pale sunlight to pour through drifting dust. During storms, rain hammers against the ceiling above while old buckets are scattered across the sanctuary floor to collect the leaking water.

An ancient hymnal sits rotting on one of the pews. Its pages have faded yellow. Ink smears across the paper. The cover has nearly fallen apart entirely.

At the altar, level with the congregation and propped upright against the stone, stands a massive golden picture frame.

Empty by virtue of itself.

Every evening, the candles were lit. No one saw who lit them. No one saw who put them out later when the night turned into day, and the sun's rays lit up the altar and the church aisles.

The number of visitors was fewer than none. No one got to see how the beautiful statues and ornaments were dressed in lights every morning and how they were extinguished in darkness every evening before the candles were lit again.

No visitors. Ever.

There was a time when the local population made pilgrimages to the church. Preacher Anderson drew people from near and far. It was simply his mesmerizing sermons that made people leave their homes, attracted by the Preachers wisdom.

Ways of life and wisdom, always different stories about human behavior, different ways of being and treating each other, and life stories.

No one knew how old Preacher Anderson was. All adult church attendees had been ordained by Preacher Anderson, so they understood he was old. Probably really old. No one even knew whether he was human or alien.

Every Sunday after high mass, Preacher Anderson disappeared. No one saw him during the weeks, but every Saturday evening, he would reappear and prepare for mass the following day.

Those who dared to ask what he did during the weeks received a mild smile in response. He fixed his gentle gaze on the questioners and replied that he was gathering strength, meditating, and writing for the upcoming Sunday's sermon.

Everyone came of their own free will and curiosity; everyone noticed that Preacher Anderson was absent during the weeks, but only if there were baptisms, funerals, or weddings Preacher Anderson appeared on days other than late Saturdays and Sundays.

Sometimes rumors appeared that told he was in cahoots with the devil, but there were never any long discussions. Preacher Anderson and the church belonged together.

This went on year after year, decade after decade, without any changes, without anyone questioning Preacher Anderson or trying to find out where he was. People sometimes visited the rectory to look for him, e.g., to arrange a wedding or a funeral, but no Preacher Anderson to be seen. But the next day, they were all paid a visit in their homes by Preacher Anderson. It was as if he knew everything. That encouraged people to visit the church every week.

But everything has a beginning and an end. Even though no one knew when the era with Preacher Anderson had begun, everyone experienced when it ended.

It started like a normal weekend, but on Saturday night, Preacher Anderson never showed up. He did not show up on Sunday morning either, and, above all, he did not show up for high mass.

The murmur that Sunday, when everyone should have listened to Preacher Anderson, would not quiet down. All the visitors asked if anyone had seen Preacher Anderson, but no one had. One asked the other and so on. After almost an hour, the first visitor quietly got up from his place in pew row ten. He nodded towards the altar, put on his hat, turned towards the exit, and left, never to return.

One by one, they did the same thing. The same greeting towards the altar, with the headdress on and out through the big, wide, old wooden gates they went.

Another week passed, and Sunday was back in the calendar.

Still no Preacher Anderson. That Sunday, people stayed for less than half an hour. Anyone could hear a certain discontent spreading.

Week after week, this went on, and after a few weeks, the church remained empty on Sundays too. Of people, anyway. The last visitor left the church three minutes after the failed start of high mass on the sixth Sunday after Preacher Anderson's disappearance. No one would ever set foot in the church again.

Outside the church, plants and trees began to spread and become increasingly wild. No one tended the trees anymore, no one tended the cemetery.

Everything fell into disrepair and oblivion. No one showed any interest. The magic was gone with Preacher Anderson, and with Preacher Anderson gone, the people, the audience, were gone. The plants took over more and more, and finally, no one could see the church anymore. Even the walls surrounding the cemetery became increasingly heavy with the ivy that was growing too rapidly.

That was how the outside was. Secret. That was how the inside was. Secret.

It was quiet and deserted on the outside. It was quiet and deserted inside.

But there was life inside the secret church.

Every evening, the candles were lit. No one saw who lit them. No one saw who put them out when the night later turned into day, and the sun's rays penetrated the forest outside and lit up the altar and the church aisles.

The number of visitors remained zero. No one more than Preacher Anderson saw how the beautiful statues were dressed in light every morning and how they fell into darkness every evening before he lit the candles again.

Preacher Anderson was no ordinary priest. And he had no ordinary church. He had a secret church.

BRIDGES

Sometimes what the world expects of you just can’t be done. The world in which I live constantly attempts to kill my faith by killing my body. But even though everyone around me tells me differently, I can’t shake the strong desire to follow Jesus wherever He leads. Yet as I keep walking through this life, it seems as if He’s leading me straight into an earthly hell.

They beat me, starve me, torture me, lie to me, abandon me, hate me. But God leads me to quiet waters and green pastures in the midst of the deathly valley my feet seem to always find themselves in. 

But as the valley grew deeper, I realized that the world is not where we belong anymore. I realized that the world we belong in is hidden from the sight of people who do not believe. 

When I allowed God to search my heart, and lead me on the right paths, it was then that I stumbled across the hidden church. 

The mind is filled with many bridges. Some are built quickly with large bricks, they are ugly and nearly indestructible. They are the enemy’s. 

Leading elsewhere are bridges created slowly over time, they have gorgeous carvings on the hand rails and supports. They are constructed of choice material and breath-taking design. These are God’s.

I’ve helped to build these bridges. Either I carry bricks for the enemy or I use a chisel to carve out the Lord’s design. When they are finished I walk on them. Satan’s lead to pits of despair and valleys of temptation, while God’s lead to mountain tops and bubbling brooks of Living Water.

One blistering hot day, according to routine, my father came into my room with his long, leather belt. He proceeded to beat me, saying over and over, “Your god cannot save you from me!”

Thoughts filled my mind, I stepped onto one of the sinister, gray bridges that I had built up at the command of the devil. 

God doesn’t see me. God won’t save me. God hates me. 

My body began to shake, my feet moved faster towards destruction, I could see my thoughts erecting more bridges on the horizon, they led closer and closer to an eternal fire.

A divine one dressed in glowing fibers of heavenly material, came down and gripped my shoulders with a strong, gentle hand. Is this the bridge you want to walk across? It whispered.

Tears slipped from under my eyelids and I shook my head. I turned slowly, it took great effort. But finally I stepped off the rough cobblestones of bitterness and lifted my feet onto the ornate marble path of forgiveness. 

I walked deliberately. Drops of repentance glistening on my cheeks.

Finally, after much praying, I stepped up off the end of the bridge. In my mind was a hidden church. It was filled with the glory of God, heavenly beings shrouded in white lace and emanating a soft, comforting glow, began to sing. Their voices echoed through the walls of my thoughts, the notes shattered the evil structures I so often found myself walking on. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, the most ornate, beautiful carvings let in shimmering light, it fell on the floor eliminating every single shadow the enemy had tried to hide.

Back in the world under my father’s strap, I fell limp. All my struggling ceased, my eyes closed, a peaceful smile settled on my lips. 

The hidden church had taken me in.

P.S. This picture of bridges in the brain has been on my mind for a few weeks now, I’m so glad this prompt gave me a chance to really express it. The mind really is built up with pathways from a scientific perspective, I kinda just had this vision almost of the science being spiritual. This was super fun and revealing to myself. Thank you guys!!! <3