The Wax House

She stood watching, with tears streaming down her face. Too many years had passed since the last time she played an active role in the hustle and bustle of activities in that old house.

She visited the old house every year since she left. It had become like a ritual for paying homage to the role the old house played in her life. Some of her old friends had left; others that stuck around noticed the different energy with the new faces that came. Most seemed excited about the different energy, and she hoped it was for the best.

Then one day she noticed the paint starting to peel away. The flowers looked thirsty, and she wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She could water the flowers, but she didn't have enough time to start the paint job. She left and again, she hoped it was for the best.

The next year, the garden was parched, and the paint had become even more splotchy. She wondered again if she was the only one who noticed. Again she watered the garden, and as she did, she began to see an image of what the old house would look like if nothing changed. She shuddered and wondered if their little old house was about to become like the story of the lighthouse that she heard not too long ago. She told a friend of that wax house she saw in that image. It looked like someone had made it into a candle with wax slabbed around rusty iron poles and set the whole thing on fire. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to do. That old house had been her stomping ground as a child, but there were others running the place now.

Not too long ago, she made another visit. The energy again felt different, and again she hoped for the best. There were new flowers in the garden, and they asked if she would help water the garden. But how could she when she had just given immense amounts of energy starting a different garden from scratch? And besides, it still bothered her that nothing had been done to change the soil or to create a better environment for the flowers to thrive better.

Still she did what she could while she fought to ignore the voice that said, "Change doesn't come with a new garden, or a fresh coat of paint. Remember? Real change never comes from the top down or the bottom up. It comes from the inside out." She found her own way to make a difference, ways they may never recognise as anything of significance, ways they will probably see as rebellious. Not that she really cared anymore what they thought. She had spent too many hours grieving the loss of too many flowers to care.

But still she wept. She wept for the old house that didn't feel like the house she grew up in anymore. She wept for the years gone by and the flowers that faded away. She wept for how the old house was starting to look more and more like the image she saw way back when. She wept for the flowers that told her to leave them alone. She wept for how she had just spent so much of her life in that land elsewhere putting pieces back into place for other old houses that have been down that same road. She wept for her own fears of being sucked back into those dark places when she grieved the other old houses.

And then he came and took her by the hand.

"My child, it's time for you to leave now. You came for rest but you found you had to hide your face. Your heart cannot be broken for so many places and this is not a house for you to grieve over anymore. Let it go. Let the flowers go. I am still in charge. Remember that lesson from way back when? Feed my sheep. But they still are MY sheep."