Brookie's House.

As we walk along the path the moon shines its big, bright face on us. 

We chat and laugh as we make our way through the chilly night towards the light that shines above the door.

Someone calls from ahead to watch out for siafu. 

Knowing the painful bite of pinching ants, the rest of us following jump over the black line of insects. 

The peach tree hangs its low boughs over the small porch, and little fruits dangle.

The big wooden door creaks open and we step into the house. 

The stone fireplace dominates the right corner. 

The kitty sprawls on the chair. 

The piano is front and centre, ready for use. 

I hand out the black and blue books and remember all the times these books have been held by fellow missionaries. 

Brookie sits down and her fingers magically run across the keys. 

In the dim light my eyes wander over the pages of songs we have sung for years. 

Together, in the same dim light. 

I remember Brookie's voice since I was little. 

Always wondering how she managed to sing so well. 

I remember Field Meeting days, when we used to gather in groups of twenty. 

I remember sitting in the group of little people. 

We'd shout out our favorites before the adults even had a chance. 

And Brookie would always listen to our requests. 

And I remember learning new songs with visiting faces. 

And crazy loud worship nights. 

I remember the crackling fire on freezing nights. 

And the guitar strum. 

I remember times when many voices joined together, when there was not enough room to sit. 

I remember Brookie's chai tray and Aunt Lynn's desserts. 

I remember sermons and prayer time. 

I remember Luka's fantastic deep voice. 

Back to the present and our little group of five is bonding. 

We laugh and share stories between songs. 

Between songs of the olden days. 

As we step out of Brookie's house into the darkness, our hearts are full. 

Hurry up and come home Brookie! :)