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CONTENTS
Chapter 1: The Last Encore
Chapter 2: The Invitation
Chapter 3: A Dangerous Love
Chapter 4: The Stranger with Familiar Eyes
Chapter 5: Truth in the Firelight
Chapter 6: The Orphanage Surprise
Chapter 7: A New Name, A New Life
Chapter 8: The Heart Behind the Words
Chapter 9: Dying to the Old
Chapter 10 A Reckoning of Intentions
Chapter 11: The Week That Became Forever
Chapter 12: A Quiet Yes
Chapter 13: A Christmas to Remember
Chapter 14: All I Want for Christmas
Chapter 15: Forever and a Day
Based in British Columbia, Canada
This book is a Work of Fiction. All Characters are Fictitious, as are the events described. However, all Quotes from the Holy Bible are Real and Life-Changing. Copyright TJ Fisher 2025.
Chapter 1: The Last Encore
The stadium lights blazed like false suns, drowning out the night sky above a sea of screaming fans. Smoke curled along the stage as if rising from the very pit of hell, curling around John Rice’s boots like a serpent. Guitars wailed. Drums pounded. But inside him—silence.
It had been his final show. And he hadn’t told a soul.
“Thank you, Toronto!” he roared into the mic with a showman’s grin. The crowd erupted. But behind the smile was a man already gone, performing a ghost’s finale.
He tossed the guitar pick into the crowd and turned, walking into darkness beyond the stage lights. His heart pounded—not from adrenaline, but from the strange peace that had settled over him. He walked past roadies, past fans with backstage passes, past his own manager, whose mouth hung open in confusion.
Back in his dressing room, he peeled off the glittering leather jacket. The mirror stared back at him, revealing the once-handsome, now gaunt face of a man who had traded his soul for applause. Dark circles, hollow eyes, cheekbones sharper than ever. He barely recognized the person who had once sung worship songs in a small-town youth group.
He opened the suitcase he’d packed weeks ago. It held only what mattered now: a Bible, a journal, a passport, and a one-way ticket to British Columbia. On top of the pile was a faded photo—two kids sitting on the steps of a church, laughing. He ran a calloused thumb across her face.
Sally.
His first and only true love. The girl who once prayed with him before high school tests. The one he’d walked away from the day the label called. She never chased him. Never wrote. And yet, every song he’d ever written held some piece of her name in its lines.
He looked again at the mirror.
“I’m done,” he whispered.
The hotel fireplace crackled behind him. He reached into his bag and pulled out the last of the drugs he’d hidden, the bottle of pills that still mocked him from the shadows. Wordlessly, he crossed the room, opened the fireplace door, and dropped them in. The flames hissed but did not devour him. Something stronger did—repentance.
Then he took the lighter fluid and set fire to the wardrobe he’d worn on stage. The sequined jacket. The snakeskin boots. Even the leather pants. The stench of burning vanity filled the suite, and he didn’t flinch. He watched until only ash remained.
Later that night, in a quiet hotel bathroom, John stared into the mirror one last time.
“I’m not him anymore.”
He placed a trembling hand over his heart. “Lord… if You’re still listening… help me start over. I’m not asking for the stage. Just salvation. I don’t want to be known. I want to be Yours.”
He turned off the lights and left before dawn.
By the time the headlines hit — “Johnny Blaze Disappears After Final Show!”—John Rice was already gone, his name and his face soon to vanish as well.
In a small clinic north of Vancouver, a nurse asked him, “Why the surgery?”
“Because,” he said softly, “I want to be a nobody… that God can use.”
The nurse smiled politely, not understanding.
But Heaven did.
And somewhere, far from the flames of fame, the embers of a new life were beginning to glow.
Chapter 2: The Invitation
Sally Shaw nearly missed the envelope among a pile of charity appeals and grocery store coupons. It was cream-colored, thick, and unmarked except for her name—Sally Shaw—written in careful, unfamiliar handwriting. She turned it over slowly. No return address.
She slid her finger under the flap and unfolded a single page.
Sally,
I don’t expect this to make sense. And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t reply.
But I’ve left that life. The stage. The noise. The mess. All of it.
I’ve changed, in more ways than one.
If it’s not too much… I’d like to see you again. Just once.
There’s something I need to say. Something I should have said years ago.
I’ll cover your flight if you’ll come.
One last time.
—J.
She sat down at the kitchen table, her tea forgotten and cooling beside her. The morning sunlight fell across the page like a silent witness.
John.
The name echoed in her heart like a song half-remembered.
He hadn’t signed it Johnny Blaze, the moniker the world knew him by—the man in leather pants, the wild prophet of pleasure, the cautionary tale of talent unmoored. No tabloid sightings for over a year. Whispers of rehab, rumours of death. And now, this letter.
“One last time.”
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
Was he sick? Dying? Was this a farewell tour of the soul?
She walked to her bookshelf, pulled down her worn Bible, and sat cross-legged on the living room floor. Her heart thudded. She had long ago given up any notion of “what could have been.” But the ache never fully left—the ache of betrayal, yes, but also the ache of a love unfinished.
She turned to a verse she had memorized when they were teenagers:
“I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten…”
—Joel 2:25
Tears stung her eyes.
“Lord,” she whispered, “what do You want me to do?”
In the quiet, a memory surfaced—John at sixteen, guitar in hand, singing It Is Well With My Soul during youth worship night. He’d closed his eyes then, the way he did when he meant the words. She hadn’t seen that look in him for decades.
And now… a letter.
She stood, still holding the page. Her pulse danced between fear and curiosity.
Was this a trap?
Or was it an invitation from a man trying to find his way back—not just to her, but to God?
Later that night, she replied with a single sentence:
Where should I fly to?
And as she clicked “Send,” she didn’t realize she had already started to go.
Chapter 3: A Dangerous Love
The plane banked slowly over a vast, white wilderness—an endless stretch of snow-blanketed forest broken only by winding rivers and tiny clusters of cabins. Sally pressed her forehead to the window, trying to calm the pounding in her chest.
She hadn’t told anyone where she was going—not even her sister, not even her pastor. Just a quiet out-of-office reply and a few emergency lesson plans left for her substitute at the school.
What am I doing?
The question had echoed through her every prayer that week.
The moment John’s reply came through—cryptic, brief, but genuine—she had booked her flight. He hadn’t mentioned a city, just a region: Stonebridge Ridge, British Columbia, Canada. He said someone would meet her at the tiny airstrip outside of town.
That had been five days ago.
Now she was thirty thousand feet above reason, heading straight into the unknown.
Her hand went instinctively to her cross pendant, the one she hadn’t taken off since her baptism as a teenager. She breathed a silent prayer: “God, if this isn’t from You, turn me around. But if it is… don’t let me miss what You’re doing.”
The plane touched down with a gentle bump, wheels skating over the icy tarmac. Only one small building stood beside the landing strip—a wooden structure with a crooked weather vane and a painted sign: Stonebridge Welcome Lodge.
There were no taxis. No cell service.
Just one man standing by an old pickup truck, holding a sign that said: S. SHAW.
Sally stepped off the plane and tugged her coat tighter. The cold air hit her like a slap. The man approached. Mid-forties, maybe. Strong build. Short, sandy-brown hair. Beard neatly trimmed. His eyes—strikingly blue—were oddly familiar.
“You must be Miss Shaw,” he said, voice calm and low. “Welcome to Stonebridge.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you. You’re…?”
“A friend of John’s,” he said. “He asked me to pick you up.”
She searched his face. There was something about the way he looked at her. Gentle, almost reverent. Like he knew more than he was letting on.
“Has he… been well?” she asked.
The man hesitated. “He’s… different. Changed. You’ll see.”
She watched him lift her suitcase into the back of the truck and felt a fresh wave of doubt crash over her. This is crazy. She was hundreds of miles from anyone who knew her, being driven by a stranger to see a man who had broken her heart and disappeared from the world.
And yet, underneath the doubt… a strange peace.
She climbed into the truck, heart racing.
“Did he—John—tell you why I’m here?” she asked.
The man gave a small smile. “Not everything. Just that he needed to see you.”
She turned to look out the window as the truck rumbled down the snowy road, trees blurring past. Mountains rose in the distance, silent and watchful. She shivered—not from cold, but from the fragile, terrifying possibility:
What if he means to say goodbye… forever?
The phrase from his letter kept looping in her mind.
“One last time.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Please, Lord… don’t let it be too late.”
Chapter 4: The Stranger with Familiar Eyes
The cabin came into view after nearly an hour of winding through silent forest roads. Sally sat forward as the truck turned up a narrow path flanked by birch trees and snow-laced evergreens. At the end of the trail, a rustic two-story home stood proudly against the backdrop of the mountains, smoke curling from the chimney. Lanterns flickered warmly on the porch.
The man cut the engine and turned to her.
“He’s inside,” he said. “He’s… nervous.”
Sally raised an eyebrow. “Is he always this dramatic?”
The man chuckled softly. “Not anymore.”
She climbed down from the truck, her boots crunching on the snow. Something stirred in her chest—a strange mix of peace and apprehension. She stepped toward the house, suitcase in hand.
Before she could knock, the door opened.
Inside stood a woman in her sixties with a bun as tight as her expression. “You must be Miss Shaw. Come in, come in—it’s cold enough to freeze your eyelashes off.”
The entryway was warm and simple—wood-panelled walls, woven rugs, and the scent of cinnamon tea wafting from somewhere. The woman gestured to a chair near the fire.
“Make yourself at home. He’ll be along in a moment.”
Sally unwrapped her scarf, trying to still her thoughts. Her eyes scanned the space. It was cozy, unpretentious. So very un-John. No platinum records. No posters. No trace of rock and roll.
And yet…
There was a guitar in the corner. Acoustic. Well-used.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open behind her, and she turned, expecting to see a new face.
Instead, it was the man who had driven her from the airport.
He stepped into the light, no longer wearing his coat, and for the first time, she really looked at him. His eyes. His posture. Even the way he folded his hands.
“Wait…” she said slowly. “You’re—”
He nodded once.
“I’m John.”
Her breath caught. Her legs weakened as she sat back down in the chair. “But… no. That’s impossible. Your face… it’s—”
“Different,” he said softly. “I know. I had surgery. I didn’t want to be recognized anymore. Not by the world, at least.”
She stared. And now that he’d said it, she could see him. Beneath the new jawline, under the trimmed beard—those eyes. They had once been wild with ambition. Now they were quiet… and pleading.
“Why the lie?” she whispered.
“I wasn’t ready,” he said. “Didn’t want you to see the old me before you saw what God’s done.”
Silence stretched between them. Only the fire crackled.
“I didn’t come here to play games, John.”
“I know. And I didn’t invite you here to start something. I just…” He swallowed hard. “I needed to see you. One last time. For something else.”
Her heart clenched. “You’re not dying, are you?”
He looked down, then back up at her. “Not physically. But I had to let the old me die completely. The one who hurt you. The one who forgot God.”
Sally stood slowly, clutching the back of the chair for balance. Her mind was spinning.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Not yet.”
He stepped toward the hearth, pulled the acoustic guitar into his lap, and began to play a melody she hadn’t heard in decades—Be Thou My Vision. Slowly. Reverently. Each note a kind of prayer.
And suddenly, tears sprang to her eyes.
He was different.
And yet—he was more himself than she had ever seen.
Chapter 5: Truth in the Firelight
The melody faded into silence, the last notes of Be Thou My Vision lingering like incense in the fire-warmed room. Sally stood motionless, arms folded across her chest—not defensive, but holding something fragile.
John placed the guitar gently against the wall, not daring to meet her eyes.
“I don’t expect you to understand, Sally,” he said quietly. “But I wanted you to see who I am now. Not the man from the headlines. Not the one who left you chasing stadium lights.”
Sally sat back down, eyes still moist. “And what exactly do you want from me?”
John shook his head. “Nothing. Just the chance to tell you the truth. All of it.”
The fire popped. Shadows danced along the logs like memories.
He exhaled, long and slow.
“You probably guessed,” he began, “that I didn’t just change my face because I hated fame. That was part of it. But… the truth is, I couldn’t bear what I saw in the mirror anymore. I hated who I became.”
Sally softened. “A lot of people fall, John. That’s not unique.”
He looked at her then, and his voice broke. “I didn’t just fall. I chose it. Over and over again. The drugs, the women, the godless crowds. The darkness became easier than the light.”
Sally leaned forward, her voice gentle. “Then why now? Why reach out to me?”
His eyes glistened in the firelight. “Because I needed to tell you something… something no fan, no therapist, no press release ever got. The drugs—they destroyed more than my career. More than my mind. They destroyed something… deeper.”
He paused, then said the words slowly, deliberately:
“I’m impotent, Sally. It’s permanent. The damage was done years ago.”
She blinked, the weight of the confession crashing down like a stone in still water. She hadn’t expected that. Not here. Not now.
He waited in silence, shame etched into every line of his face.
And then Sally said something that surprised even herself.
“John… I didn’t come here to fall in love.”
He looked down, nodding.
“But I also didn’t come here to judge you,” she added. “I came because I heard something in your letter that I haven’t heard in your voice for a long time.”
“What’s that?”
“Truth.” She swallowed. “And maybe… hope.”
The fire flared, and in the flicker of orange light, John’s shoulders loosened just a bit.
Sally leaned back in her chair, her voice quieter now.
“Do you remember,” she said, “what you used to tell the younger kids in youth group when they’d ask why we saved ourselves for marriage?”
John smiled faintly. “Yeah. ‘Because real love doesn’t need sex to prove it’s real.’”
She nodded. “I always believed that.”
He met her eyes, tears brimming. “I did too. Once. Before I threw it all away.”
“But maybe,” Sally said slowly, “it’s not too late to start believing again.”
John didn’t speak. He simply reached for the Bible on the side table and placed it gently between them.
“I believe now,” he said. “And that’s why you’re here.”
They sat in silence as snow fell gently outside the window, the fire between them steady and warm—like a flicker of something old… and something new.
Chapter 6: The Orphanage Surprise
The next morning, the sun rose slowly over Stonebridge Ridge, casting long golden rays across the snow-laced trees. The silence of the forest was sacred—unbothered, still, and somehow closer to Heaven.
Sally stood by the frosted window in the guest room, cradling a steaming mug of tea. Below, tire tracks stretched through the snow-covered driveway. The man she had once known as John Rice—and now only as John—was loading supplies into the back of the truck. He moved with quiet purpose, the flashy arrogance totally gone, replaced by something deeper… something rooted.
She wasn’t sure what to do with all she had learned the night before. The revelation of his physical brokenness wasn’t the shock she expected—it was the tenderness in his voice that had undone her.
There was no manipulation. No plea for pity.
Just a man offering her the truth—naked and without expectations.
And now, he was inviting her to see his new life.
By midmorning, they were driving through the snow-covered valley. Trees stood like tall, reverent witnesses as the pickup rumbled through. Neither of them spoke much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
Finally, John turned off the main road and onto a long gravel path, where a wooden sign read:
“New Dawn Children’s Home.”
Sally looked at him, brows furrowed. “Is this…?”
He smiled gently. “Yes.”
They pulled into a snowy clearing where a modest but sprawling farmhouse stood. Smoke rose from the chimney, and laughter echoed faintly from around the back.
As they stepped out, the front door swung open.
A girl, maybe ten years old, with wild curls and a gap-toothed grin, barrelled down the steps.
“JOHN!” she shouted, throwing her arms around his waist.
“Hey, Mimsy,” he chuckled, steadying her with ease. “You’re supposed to be in class.”
“Mrs. Harper’s reading another boring story about a talking frog. I escaped.”
She looked at Sally with a bold curiosity. “Who’s she? Is she the new cook?”
Sally laughed despite herself.
John crouched to eye level with the girl. “Mimsy, this is Miss Shaw. She’s an old friend.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Ooooh. Special friend?”
Sally flushed. John chuckled. “Too early to tell.”
From behind the house came more noise—shouts, giggles, the unmistakable chaos of children at play. Sally followed John around the side and stopped in her tracks.
There they were.
Children of all ages—sledding, tossing snowballs, making lopsided snowmen. Some wore hand-me-down coats. Some had mismatched mittens. But every single one of them was smiling.
Sally’s breath caught. “You did this?”
“I bought it six months ago,” John said quietly. “It was days from being shut down. The director had no funding, no staff. Just kids who needed someone to show up.”
Sally looked at him, her voice trembling. “But why? You could’ve disappeared anywhere. Lived quietly. Written your memoir. Why this?”
He looked out across the snowy yard where a small boy was helping a younger girl to her feet after a tumble.
“Because I needed a family,” he said simply. “And they needed someone who wouldn’t leave. And I couldn’t think of anything worse than being an orphan. Until I met orphans who were days off being homeless”
Sally blinked, trying to find her words.
“You always loved kids,” she whispered.
John turned to her, his voice low. “I may not be able to have any of my own. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a father.”
“And the great thing about kids – there is no judgement.” He said quietly
Something in her heart cracked open.
And then Mimsy ran past again, calling to the others. “Hey everybody! Come meet John’s friend!”
Within seconds, a dozen little faces gathered around her—curious, hopeful, wide-eyed.
One boy tugged her sleeve. “Are you gonna stay?”
John opened his mouth to speak, but Sally beat him to it.
“I’m… not sure,” she said. “But I’d like to get to know all of you.”
A cheer went up. One girl grabbed her hand, another clung to her coat. They didn’t care who she had been. They just saw someone new. And wanted to love.
John watched from the porch as Sally was swept into their world.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.
Chapter 7: A New Name, A New Life
The chapel was small, tucked at the far end of the orphanage property, nestled between snow-covered pines. It had once been a storage shed, John explained as he led Sally up the wooden steps, but now it held a cross made of reclaimed barn wood, mismatched pews, and a piano that only played in the key of “almost.”
Sally stepped inside, breathing in the scent of pine and old hymnals. Light streamed through the single stained glass window in the back—an image of the Good Shepherd cradling a lamb.
She turned to John, who lingered by the doorway, his expression uncertain.
“You built all this?”
“I restored it. The bones were already here. I just gave them purpose again.”
Like him, she thought.
They sat side by side in the second pew. A Bible rested on the bench between them, its spine cracked from use.
“You said you left everything behind,” Sally said softly. “The music, the fame. But… why this much? A new face? A new name?”
John stared at the cross ahead. “Because I didn’t just want to disappear—I wanted to be reborn.”
He paused, then looked at her.
“I couldn’t be John Rice anymore. That man was admired by millions… but he was hollow. Selfish. Addicted to applause. He wanted to be seen more than he wanted to be saved.”
Sally nodded slowly. “And now?”
He gave a soft smile. “Now I go by Jonathan Shepherd. It’s on my legal documents, my bank account, even the lease for this place.”
“Why Shepherd?”
He looked down, voice trembling. “Because I’ve been the lost sheep. And now… I want to spend the rest of my life finding others like me. And leading them home.”
Tears welled in Sally’s eyes—not for who he had been, but for who he was becoming.
“Do the kids know your story?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not all of it. Just that I used to be someone else. They don’t need my past—just my presence.”
They sat in silence, the warmth of the small chapel folding around them like a prayer.
“I asked the Lord to give me a quiet life,” John said finally. “A life where I could serve. Not preach. Just be. To mend fences, fix broken doors, and sit with lonely kids who think no one sees them.”
He turned to her. “And when I prayed… I saw you.”
Sally’s breath caught.
“I never expected you to come,” he said. “But I hoped. Because I needed you to know that what we had as kids—the faith, the dreams, the music—it wasn’t lost. It was buried. And now… it’s being resurrected.”
Sally reached for the Bible between them and opened it to the inside cover. A name was written there in black ink:
Jonathan Shepherd.
She traced the letters with her fingers.
Then, gently, she asked, “Can I stay for chapel this Sunday?”
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Outside, the bells on the orphanage porch rang as the kids were called in for lunch.
But inside the chapel, two hearts sat still—one reborn, one slowly awakening—and both quietly realizing that sometimes, God answers long-forgotten prayers in the most unexpected ways.
Chapter 8: The Heart Behind the Words
The sun dipped low over the ridge, casting a pink-and-gold glow across the snow. Inside the orphanage’s old dining hall, the children were finishing dinner—mac and cheese night, with hot rolls and jam. Laughter echoed through the rafters like music.
John and Sally stood just outside, on the wraparound porch, their breath rising in clouds as the cold evening settled in.
John leaned against the railing, hands in his coat pockets. “They’re loud,” he said with a smile, tilting his head toward the door.
“They’re alive,” Sally answered softly. “And that’s what matters.”
They stood side by side in silence for a moment, watching as the first stars pierced the dusk.
Finally, John spoke.
“I didn’t bring you here to impress you, Sally. I know that sounds strange. Most of my life, I tried to win people over—fans, managers, women. But this… this isn’t about winning. It’s about owning the pain I caused.”
She turned toward him slowly, her expression unreadable.
“I hurt you,” he continued. “Back then. When I left. When I stopped calling. I told myself it was for the best—that I was too far gone, that I didn’t deserve someone like you.” He paused. “And then I just… disappeared.”
Sally looked down, her voice a whisper. “I cried for weeks, you know. I prayed God would bring you back… or at least let me forget.”
John nodded, his jaw tightening. “I was a coward. I chased the world because it was easier than facing the people I loved.”
There was something so raw in his confession that Sally had to look away. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out toward the trees, their branches dark against the twilight sky.
“I’m not here for an apology,” she said after a moment. “I’ve made my peace with the past.”
“But I’m here to give one,” John replied gently. “Not because I think it’ll change anything. But because it’s right. You were the best part of my life, Sally. And I treated you like a footnote. I let fame write our ending.”
She glanced over at him, surprised by the emotion in his voice. There were no theatrics, no polished words. Just the honesty of a man who had been broken—and had allowed God to rebuild him.
“I forgive you,” she said quietly. “Not because I have to… but because I can see you’re not the same.”
John nodded, his eyes glistening. “I’m not. I buried the old me. And when I asked the Lord what remained worth saving, your name was the first thing that came to mind.”
The porch light clicked on, casting a warm halo around them.
Inside, the children’s laughter faded into bedtime routines. Outside, the forest hushed.
Sally stepped closer to him, arms still folded.
“You know what hurts most?” she asked.
He looked at her, listening.
“That you didn’t think I would’ve walked with you through the mess. That you didn’t give me the chance to love you at your worst.”
John swallowed hard. “I didn’t love myself enough to let anyone try.”
Sally nodded, the words settling between them like falling snow.
Then, with quiet strength, she whispered, “Well, I’m here now.”
He looked into her eyes, unsure whether to hope or retreat.
And in that soft silence—sacred and slow—they both knew something had shifted.
Forgiveness had been spoken.
And grace had made room for something new to begin.
Chapter 9: Dying to the Old
Sunday morning arrived draped in white. Fresh snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the world in purity. The orphanage was quiet as the children bundled up, ready for the walk to the chapel. Their boots stomped softly through the powder, laughter mingling with the crunch of fresh snow.
Inside, the chapel glowed with lamplight and simplicity. The old wood stove radiated warmth, and the mismatched pews slowly filled with sleepy-eyed children, some whispering, some still yawning.
Sally sat in the second row beside Mimsy and Toby. John stood near the front, leafing through his worn Bible. There was no pulpit, no microphone—just the Book, a guitar, and a room full of hungry hearts.
As the last child slipped inside, John closed the door and stepped forward.
“Good morning,” he began, voice steady. “I’m not a preacher, and I don’t have fancy degrees. But I do have a story. And today, I think it’s time I shared a part of it.”
He looked over the small crowd, then to Sally—who gave a small nod of encouragement.
“I used to live for the world,” John said. “Some of you are too young to know this, but I had a different name then. A different face, even. I was a man people followed… but I wasn’t leading them anywhere good. I thought I was free, but I was trapped.”
Some of the older kids leaned in, wide-eyed.
“And when everything crashed—when the parties faded, when the friends disappeared—I realized I had nothing left. Nothing but shame, and the memory of a girl who once prayed with me in youth group.”
Sally’s eyes filled with tears.
John smiled at her gently. “So I came here. Not to hide—but to die.”
Gasps rustled through the room, but John raised a hand.
“Not that kind of death. I mean the kind that Jesus talks about—the kind that leaves the old man behind. I needed to bury the version of me that chased applause instead of peace. That used people instead of loving them. I needed to be crucified with Christ.”
He paused, then read aloud:
“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me…”
—Galatians 2:20
“I changed my name to Jonathan Shepherd,” he said, “not because I was hiding—but because I wanted to live as the man God was raising up from the ashes. A shepherd. Not a star.”
The room was silent now, even the smallest children still.
“I’m sharing this because maybe someone here feels like their story’s already over. But I’m here to tell you—it’s not. Not if Jesus is in it. He doesn’t just redeem us—He resurrects us.”
He set his Bible down and picked up his guitar, fingers trembling slightly. “This song isn’t mine. It belongs to all of us who’ve been broken and remade.”
He strummed softly, and the first lines of Amazing Grace filled the chapel—tender, trembling, true.
Sally bowed her head, tears spilling quietly onto folded hands. She wasn’t crying for who John had been.
She was crying for who he had become.
And somewhere between the second and third verse, she realized she no longer feared being here.
She was exactly where God wanted her to be.
Chapter 10 – A Reckoning of Intentions
Sally sat in the café, swirling the last dregs of her lukewarm coffee, when John walked in with that familiar look — part mischief, part mission. She sensed something was coming, but nothing could’ve prepared her for what he was about to say.
“I bought it,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
Sally blinked. “Bought what?”
“The orphanage. It was in serious debt.
She stared at him, trying to read his face. Was this another one of his impulsive charity drives? Or was it something deeper? Was it John’s decision? Or Gods?
“John, this place is drowning. It’s not a fixer-upper. It’s a sinking ship.”
“That’s why I bought it,” he said calmly. “Not to fix it. To keep it from disappearing. Along with kids who so desperately need it.”
Sally’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just the surprise — it was what this meant. His savings gone, settling down to this as his future life, his unspoken guilt about his own childhood and last, but by no means least, getting back to God… It all came crashing into this single decision.
“I’m gonna need help to run it – Are you looking for a new job?”
Sally froze. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you’re serious, give me a few days to think about it.”
“Playing hard to get, eh” he grinned. “What if I upped the offer from staff member to partner?”
“Define partner John” Sally said quietly.
John looked her straight in the eye. “Whatever works for you now Sally. If Business Partner is all there is right now, you can always upgrade later. Let’s take this at your pace.”
Silence stretched between them for a while, gradually disappearing as Sally’s sobs got louder. Outside, children darted past the window, chasing nothing and everything. Sally watched them and wondered how many of them were already lost — and how many John was going to save. And was she going to be helping him?
She looked back at him. His eyes didn’t flinch. He had made up his mind.
He sighed and said quietly, “This, and God and these kids, are all I need now, except for one thing. You. And I can be patient; I’ll wait for you to decide how you define partner.”
Chapter 11: The Week That Became Forever
What was supposed to be seven days had quietly stretched into ten. And then twelve. And then Sally stopped counting altogether.
Each morning brought the scent of fresh bread, the giggles of little ones trying to sneak into the kitchen, and the mountain sun rising like a blessing across the ridge. The cold no longer bit; it embraced. And with each passing day, Sally’s heart softened like snow under the early spring thaw.
She had begun helping with lessons—teaching reading to the younger kids, leading Bible memory games in the chapel, organizing art sessions that left the dining table covered in glue and laughter. The children had claimed her with open arms and open hearts.
And she didn’t resist.
One evening, she and John sat on the porch watching the stars emerge. The sky here was so vast, so unspoiled. No city lights, no noise—just the sound of wind through pine and the distant laughter of the children settling in for bed.
“I think Mimsy is convinced I’m moving in,” Sally said, cradling a mug of tea in both hands.
“She asked me yesterday if we were getting married,” John said with a sheepish grin. “Said we’d make good ‘snow parents.’ Whatever that means.”
Sally laughed, but the words hung between them. She looked down at the steam rising from her cup.
“I didn’t expect this,” she said finally. “Any of it. You. The orphanage. The peace.”
John leaned back, stretching his arms across the top of the bench. “Neither did I. I thought I was coming here to bury a life. Turns out… I was planting one.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was tender.
Sally turned to him. “When did it change for you? When did you stop running and start living again?”
He considered that for a long moment. “The day I stopped asking God to fix my past… and started asking Him to use my present.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s a hard prayer.”
“But it’s the only one that matters now.”
A door creaked open behind them, and Mimsy padded onto the porch in fuzzy slippers, holding a folded piece of paper.
“I made this for you,” she said, handing it to Sally.
Sally opened it to find a crayon drawing: a crooked house, trees, stick-figure kids, and in the center, a tall man and a woman with brown hair holding hands.
The caption in scribbled letters read: “Home is where your people are.”
Sally pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes watering up.
Mimsy grinned and scurried back inside.
John glanced over her shoulder, reading the words. “Kids have a way of saying what we’re too afraid to.”
Sally folded the drawing carefully, then looked at him.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
He turned fully toward her, eyes earnest. “I don’t want you to.”
She reached for his hand, resting gently on the bench between them. There were no fireworks. No swelling music.
Just two hands – and hearts – touching quietly under the stars.
And somewhere in the silence, God was beginning a new story—thread by redemptive thread.
Chapter 12: A Quiet Yes
Sally woke before the sun, stirred not by alarm or obligation but by something gentler—peace.
It had woven itself into her days here like a quilt: the rhythm of the children’s routines, the soft cadence of shared prayer, the stillness of the snow-covered mornings. She sat by the window in her small upstairs room, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Bible in her lap.
She had marked the page the night before, sensing the Lord might have something to say this morning. Her eyes fell on the passage:
“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.”
—Jeremiah 6:16
Rest.
That’s what she had found here. And something more.
Across the yard, the chapel stood quietly in the grey light of early dawn. The sight of it stirred her heart—not because it was perfect, but because it represented a life built not on performance, but on presence. God’s presence.
Downstairs, she could already hear John moving in the kitchen—his familiar morning routine of clinking mugs and humming softly. He had taken to singing hymns under his breath as he cooked, sometimes slipping in original melodies that blended reverence and memory.
She descended the stairs, drawn not just by the smell of coffee, but by the steady warmth she now associated with him.
He looked up as she entered, still in her robe.
“Morning,” he said with a small smile. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied, pouring herself a cup. “The Lord beat you to it.”
He chuckled. “He tends to do that.”
They sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around warm mugs. Neither felt the need to fill the quiet. It was a sacred silence, the kind where hearts speak before lips do.
John glanced at her, eyes searching. “You’ve been here longer than you planned.”
Sally nodded. “I know.”
“I’m not trying to push you,” he said gently. “I just… don’t want you to feel like you have to leave.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then spoke softly.
“I don’t.”
His eyes held hers. “What are you saying?”
She took a breath. “I’m saying yes.”
“To staying?” he asked, hope breaking across his face.
“To you,” she replied.
His breath caught.
“I don’t need grand promises,” she continued. “I’m not asking for a wedding date or a picket fence. I’m just saying… if this is what God’s doing—us, this place, these kids—I want to be part of it. All of it. Day by day. Step by step.”
John didn’t speak for a moment. He simply reached across the table and took her hand, his touch warm, sure, reverent.
“Then that’s all I need,” he whispered.
She smiled, eyes shining.
They bowed their heads and prayed—not for a perfect future, but for strength to love faithfully in the imperfect present.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, lighting the snow with gold.
And inside, two hearts quietly committed to something that had taken a lifetime to find:
A beginning.
Chapter 13: A Christmas to Remember
Snow fell softly on the orphanage roof as December 25th dawned—white, quiet, holy. Inside, warmth radiated from the kitchen and the fireplace, from the children’s laughter and the scent of gingerbread baking in the oven.
It was their first Christmas together—John, Sally, and the children.
And it felt like the first Christmas ever.
The dining hall had been transformed overnight into a winter wonderland. Pine boughs draped across the beams. Handmade ornaments twinkled on a tall tree in the corner—popsicle-stick stars and paper angels, each bearing a child’s name. A wooden manger scene sat near the windowsill, carved by John and painted lovingly by the children.
“Alright, troops!” Mrs. Harper declared, bustling into the room with her apron dusted in flour. “Finish your hot chocolate and get your scarves on—we’ve got a service to attend!”
The children scrambled, giggling and slipping on boots too big and gloves too small.
John stood by the tree, watching as Sally carefully fastened Mimsy’s coat. There was a quiet awe in his expression—a kind of reverence he used to reserve for music… now offered to something deeper.
“Hard to believe this place almost closed last year,” Mrs. Harper said, stepping beside him.
“God had other plans,” John replied.
She nodded. “And He sent you and Sally to carry them out. You may not wear halos, but you’re the answer to more prayers than you’ll ever know.”
John looked at the room—alive with joy, restored with grace—and felt the truth of it sink in.
Outside, the snow crunched underfoot as the group made their way to the chapel. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the smell of candles and evergreen. The children settled onto the pews, buzzing with excitement for the special program they had secretly rehearsed with Sally.
Pastor Tremblay opened the service with prayer, then stepped aside.
John and Sally sat together on the front pew, not speaking—just holding hands as the children began their surprise. Mimsy stepped forward, a little nervous but shining with purpose.
“We wrote this song… for Mr. Shepherd and Miss Shaw,” she announced, her voice bright. “Because we wanted them to know what we really wanted for Christmas.”
Sally blinked, confused. “What we—?”
Then the children began to sing—to the tune of All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth—but with lyrics that made the whole room still:
All we want for Christmas is a new Mom and Dad,
Someone kind, who’s always glad,
To laugh with us and help us grow,
To never leave and always show…
That love means staying when it’s hard to stay,
And praying with us every single day,
So all we want this Christmas is to say…
We love you in every way.
Sally pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. John bowed his head, shoulders shaking.
The children sang the chorus again—off-key in places, loud in others—but more heartfelt than any song John had ever performed in his career.
And when they finished, the room erupted into cheers and giggles—and something else… hope made visible.
Pastor Tremblay stepped forward again, clearing his throat with a knowing smile.
“Well, if that doesn’t melt the snow off the roof,” he said, “I don’t know what will.”
Laughter rippled through the chapel.
But Sally couldn’t speak. She turned to John, who was already watching her, eyes full.
They didn’t need to say anything.
The answer was already written in the joy around them.
In the children’s eyes.
In the song that said it all.
This wasn’t just a good Christmas.
It was a holy one.
A redemptive one.
The beginning of forever.
Chapter 14: All I Want for Christmas
The chapel had emptied, but no one had really left. The children danced in the aisles, parents of nearby foster families joined in for cookies, and laughter rang off the timber beams.
But John and Sally stood quietly at the back, still stunned.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like that,” Sally whispered, her eyes shining.
John rubbed his hand over his face, still trying to steady his breath. “They blindsided me. Us. Did you know they’d been working on that?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Not a clue. Mimsy is better at secrets than I gave her credit for.”
From across the room, the little girl in question beamed at them and gave a double thumbs-up, her pigtails bouncing.
Then Pastor Tremblay approached, his smile warm beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “Well,” he said, folding his hands. “That was a first in my career.”
“They wrote it themselves?” John asked.
The pastor nodded. “With a little help. They asked me if they could turn that old Christmas song into a ‘real prayer.’ That’s how they put it.”
John looked over at the manger scene near the altar, the soft candlelight flickering around baby Jesus.
“They didn’t write a song,” he said quietly. “They wrote a covenant.”
Pastor Tremblay’s expression turned gentle. “Then maybe you and Sally should pray about how to answer it.”
He left them in silence.
Sally stepped closer to John, slipping her hand into his.
“You know what scares me?” she said.
He turned to her, brow furrowed. “What?”
“That I didn’t want to come here. I was so afraid you were dying. That ‘one last time’ meant I was going to lose you for good.”
His voice was soft. “You didn’t lose me.”
“No,” she whispered. “I found you.”
The music inside was fading as the children began bundling up to return to the orphanage for lunch. But the air between John and Sally was charged with something holy.
He looked at her with the gentlest ache in his eyes. “I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve lost too many years to make promises lightly.”
“I’m not asking for a timeline,” she said. “Just a direction.”
His lips curved into the faintest smile. “Then here’s mine: I want us to raise these kids together. I want to grow something that lasts. I want to give them a home—and give you a home—if you’ll have it.”
Her eyes welled again. “John—”
“Jonathan,” he corrected, almost sheepishly. “John died. And God gave me this name so I could build something new.”
She smiled through her tears. “Then, Jonathan… yes.”
From the front of the chapel, Ellie’s voice rang out clear and strong:
“Sing it again!”
And suddenly, the children launched into a second round of the song, now with everyone clapping along.
All we want for Christmas is a new Mom and Dad…
But this time, as they sang, Sally and John stood in the centre aisle—hands joined, surrounded by children, watched by the flickering light of a wooden manger and the glow of a Saviour who had never once stopped pursuing them.
And this time, the words felt like more than lyrics.
They were home.
Chapter 15: Forever and a Day
New Year’s Day dawned in silence, as if creation itself was holding its breath. Frost edged every branch in crystalline lace, and the valley was wrapped in a hush that felt like sacred expectancy.
Sally awoke to the sound of children giggling somewhere downstairs and the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting from the kitchen. Her heart stirred before her eyes even opened.
Today felt different.
She rose, dressed simply in a navy-blue sweater and jeans, and made her way to the dining hall, where something… was definitely going on.
Children were whispering. Mrs. Harper gave her a suspiciously wide smile. Even John was oddly quiet, nervously adjusting his collar and avoiding her eyes.
“What’s going on?” Sally asked, glancing from face to face.
Mimsy bounced on her heels. “You’ll see!”
Ellie and Eva grabbed her hands and led her outside. The snow was fresh and powdery, and as they turned the corner toward the chapel, Sally gasped.
The path had been lined with tiny evergreen branches and hand-painted signs. Each one bore a word:
Hope. Grace. Family. Forgiveness. Forever.
Inside, the chapel was filled with candlelight again, but this time the pews were arranged in a semicircle, like a great family gathered at the table of love.
John stood at the front, waiting, wearing a deep green sweater and a look that was equal parts nervous and radiant.
Pastor Tremblay stepped forward, chuckling. “Well, Miss Shaw. Looks like the children have planned their own version of a New Year’s celebration.”
Sally glanced around. “What exactly is this?”
Mimsy stepped forward, holding a small folder with crayon-coloured hearts.
“This,” she announced proudly, “is your Adoption Day.”
Gasps and laughter filled the room.
“Adoption?” Sally repeated, wide-eyed.
John stepped closer, taking her hand in his. “They planned this without telling me. But once they let me in on the secret, I couldn’t say no.”
He turned to the children and smiled. “You all wanted to make this official. You wanted to say that Sally and I are your family. And…” He looked back at her, eyes tender. “I wanted to say I do.”
Sally’s heart caught in her throat.
Eva handed her a handmade certificate drawn in sparkly marker:
“We, the Children of New Dawn, do hereby adopt Miss Sally and Mr. John as our Forever Mom and Dad.”
She burst into tears, laughing as she hugged Eva tightly. Then Ellie. Then Mimsy. One by one, the children circled around them, wrapping their arms around legs, arms, hands—love in every direction.
Sally turned to John, overwhelmed.
“This was them,” he said softly. “But it’s what I’ve wanted for a long time.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden heart, carved from a piece of the old chapel pew.
“I don’t have a ring,” he said, “and this isn’t a proposal in the traditional sense. But if you’ll stay… forever and a day… I want to build a life with you. With them. For Him.”
Sally took the heart into her palm, tears rolling freely now.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The room erupted in cheers.
The children led a final chorus—this time not of silly songs, but of Great Is Thy Faithfulness. And every voice, from the smallest to the strongest, rang with joy and praise.
Because God had taken ashes and made beauty.
He had taken orphans and made a family.
He had taken two broken hearts and written a redemptive love story.
Sally leaned against John, their hands clasped tightly. Outside, the snow continued to fall, quiet and white, as if heaven itself was blessing the day.
And God smiled.
The End!
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