The Server's Chronicle: A Fantasy Of Faith

The days following his encounter with Jesus were anything but ordinary for Louis. The organ's melody stayed with him, weaving through his dreams, accompanied by fleeting glimpses of golden light and faint whispers he couldn't quite understand.

At first, the changes were subtle. He didn't even notice them until his grandfather pointed it out one Sunday morning.

"Your timing's been off, boy," his grandfather said after Mass, as Louis packed up his sheet music. His tone was gruff, but there was a curious gleam in his eyes. "Yet no one seems to mind. In fact... they're listening closer than ever."

Louis paused, turning to his grandfather. "What do you mean?"

"The parishioners. They look... calmer, more at peace when you play. Even old Mrs. Fontaine stopped complaining about the hymns being too long."

Louis shrugged it off at first, dismissing it as his grandfather's overactive imagination. But as the week went on, he began to notice it too—the way people lingered in their pews, their expressions softened, their postures relaxed.

And then there were the strange moments.

The first happened on his walk home after choir practice. He rounded a corner and spotted a young boy crying on the sidewalk, his scraped knee bleeding through torn jeans. Without thinking, Louis crouched beside him.

"Hey, it's okay," Louis said, his voice instinctively softening. He reached out, intending to help the boy stand. The moment his hand touched the child's arm, a warmth spread through him—gentle, soothing, and alive.

The boy gasped, his teary eyes widening. "It... it doesn't hurt anymore!"

Louis froze, his gaze darting to the boy's knee. The scrape was still there, but the redness and swelling had vanished.

"What just...?" Louis muttered, staring at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else. The warmth faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him shaken.

"Thanks, mister!" the boy said, flashing a toothy grin before running off.

Louis watched him go, a heavy weight settling in his chest. Was this what Jesus meant by potential?

Word of his unusual abilities spread quickly, though not always directly. Parishioners began lingering after services, approaching him with quiet requests.

"Could you pray for me? My back's been acting up."

"Can you play that hymn again? It helped me sleep last night."

Louis was baffled. He wasn't doing anything special—was he? But every interaction seemed to confirm that something had changed.

One evening, while helping his grandfather in the garden, Louis felt it again—that strange, inexplicable awareness. The ladder his grandfather was using to trim the hedges wobbled precariously. Louis turned just in time to see it tipping.

"Grandpa, hold on!" he shouted, sprinting forward. He steadied the ladder before it could fall, his heart pounding.

His grandfather climbed down slowly, wiping his brow. "How'd you know it was gonna fall?"

"I just... felt it," Louis said, his voice trailing off.

His grandfather gave him a long, searching look but said nothing more.

The final straw came when a stranger approached him after Mass—a woman in her forties, her face etched with worry. She held out a rosary, her hands trembling.

"Please," she said. "I don't know why, but I felt like I should ask you to bless this."

"I'm not a priest," Louis stammered, stepping back. "You should talk to Father Gabriel."

"But there's... something about you," the woman insisted. "Please."

Hesitating, Louis took the rosary. The moment it touched his palm, that now-familiar warmth returned, stronger this time, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The woman gasped softly, her worry melting into a serene smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, clutching the rosary to her chest as she walked away.

Louis stood there, staring at his hand, the weight of it all crashing down on him.

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he felt more lost than ever. Was this what Jesus meant by potential?

He clenched his fists, frustration and fear bubbling up inside him. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want to be special.

And yet, deep down, a small voice whispered—a voice that carried the same calm, steady presence he'd felt in the church.

"You're not alone. Trust the path."

The warmth returned, filling him with a quiet resolve. Whatever was happening, he couldn't ignore it anymore. He had to find out what it all meant.

...

The days blurred together as Louis tried to reconcile his new reality with his ordinary life. Though he continued his routines—practicing the organ, helping around the church, and attending school—he couldn't shake the feeling that something larger loomed just out of reach.

His dreams grew more vivid. Each night, he found himself wandering through golden fields under a sky that shimmered with countless stars. There were no paths, yet he felt guided, as if unseen hands were steering him toward something. The whispers were louder now, but still indistinct, leaving him both frustrated and curious.

One afternoon, Louis decided to confide in someone. He found his grandfather in the workshop, surrounded by tools and half-finished carvings. The scent of wood shavings and varnish filled the air, grounding Louis in the familiar.

"Grandpa," he began hesitantly, leaning against the workbench. "Can I ask you something?"

His grandfather looked up from his work, wiping his hands on a rag. "Of course, boy. What's on your mind?"

Louis hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he explain something so strange without sounding ridiculous?

"Do you believe... that God can work through ordinary people?"

His grandfather's eyes softened, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What kind of question is that? Of course, He can. He does it all the time. Why do you ask?"

Louis shifted uncomfortably. "It's just... lately, things have been happening. Weird things. People say I've helped them, but I don't know how. And it's not like I'm doing anything special."

His grandfather set down the carving he'd been working on and leaned back in his chair. "Weird things, huh? Like what?"

Louis recounted the incidents—the boy with the scraped knee, the ladder, the rosary. With each story, his grandfather's expression grew more thoughtful.

When Louis finished, the older man let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be. Sounds like you've been touched by grace, boy."

"Grace?" Louis echoed, his brow furrowing.

"God's favor. His way of working through people to touch the lives of others," his grandfather explained. "It's not something you can earn or control. It's a gift. And from the sound of it, you've been given more than your fair share."

Louis looked down at his hands. "But why me? I'm nobody special."

His grandfather chuckled, clapping a hand on Louis's shoulder. "That's exactly why, boy. God doesn't choose the flashy or the proud. He chooses the humble, the ones who don't even realize their own potential. Maybe it's time you started seeing yourself the way He does."

The words settled over Louis like a blanket, warm and reassuring. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of clarity.

That night, Louis returned to the church alone. The sanctuary was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. He sat at the organ, his fingers resting on the keys but not playing.

"Okay," he murmured into the silence. "If this is real—if this is You—then show me what I'm supposed to do."

The air seemed to shift, growing warmer, heavier. Louis's hands moved instinctively, a melody flowing from him that he didn't recognize. It was hauntingly beautiful, filling the space with a sense of awe and reverence.

As the final note lingered, he felt it again—that presence, comforting and unyielding. The whispers in his dreams came back, clearer now, forming a single word:

"Faith."

Louis exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. He didn't have all the answers, but for the first time, he felt certain of one thing—he wasn't walking this path alone.

With renewed determination, he left the church, stepping into the cool night air. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it head-on. And this time, he wouldn't be afraid.