Midnight Journal,Midnight Journal范文

It's a true story in the summer of 1998 when I was attending a youth conference in L. A... and it feels so good to rewind it in the recollection...
Fog swirls, swallowing the car in front of us. Dense, impenetrable, the wall of white throws back the lights into my eyes. There are four of us in a family van that is creeping along the free way from downtown L. A. to Lancaster. Fog gets even stronger and spreads out like a blanket over the flat land. It's Noah's turn to drive with complaints about the couldn't be lower visibility. But he is whispering so that Eugene and Kikki can sleep still. With eyes slightly closed, I am playing Bob Dylan on the disk, whose rhythm echoes the midnight prays.
Well, we've truly had enough prayers just now. Being off from the annual Vineyard Church International Yough Conference, I find myself deeply buried in the ferment that kids create from all over the world. There are cries and whisper, laughter and tears, bless and pain, confidence and disbelief mixed together, building up a confession of the detours of soul. Bible has recorded all this since centuries ago. It's about God, but it's not all time religion.
A boy from Panama asked me if I eat turkey as an Irish Catholic when pastor David was presenting his speech. I smilingly nodded my head and turned back to Mr. David. He is an authentic English with dark blue pupils, eyes right fixing into his listener while talking. He has truly handsome chins that show up his decency of smile and subtleness of wit.
"There is only one door into heaven and Jesus said, 'I'm the door' (John 10: 9), he quoted, "The way you enter is by expressing faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Faith in Jesus is a commitment to the one whose life becomes your life and his life within you makes you a new person."
There was a dead silence for praying before a burst of weeping broke the ice. A blonde girl threw herself into the arms of the peer beside her, hiding her face. A boy of crew cut on the first row was bending his knees, forehead down to the ground,whispering his regrets. A black girl standing right beside me was shivering her lips with tears hanging up in her eyes, showing a piece of uncertainty. It was truly heart wrenching when more and more kids were peacefully touched by the power of God,harmonizing their words with tears, rather than screaming out their logo as "we love Jesus yes we dm we love Jesus how about you."
It hasn't been long before I am used to the way of praying here in the States. The melancholies in the air soon put me on the way of figuring out the fact lying behind the tears. It numbed me to see the fear and solitude that root deeply in this materially rich world. There is a false security that drastically reshapes the country by drug, crimes, pre marital sex and racism. And it seemed here every tiny little souls were certain victims. Jesus wasn't truly there, but the void became the savior.
It was then that the mother of pastor David rose to sing "Ave Maria". She came up to piano in a gentle pace, took a breath, closed her eyes, and delivered the goods. Well, never have heard the song offered with more feeling, more passion and fervor. She was seventy years old and magnificent. The plain voice flowing in the air was neither scratchy nor dramatic that you might expect from an aging third rate opera singer. This was actually the voice of a grandmother distilling her life into the music to honor what she loved and believed in. when the last lovely note faded and silence held us firm, the "grandma" opened her eyes, smiled at us, and said, "my lord be with you."