He creased his eyes and played with the sunlight as it danced within his lashes and watery vision. His thought of an angelic apparition composed of sunlight was quickly passed off. He didn’t believe in angels, anyhow. Angels–the things he once believed were possible–were simply from another time in his life, back when his mom and dad were still a thing. Back when his childhood was forcefully held together by a controlling father who’d always insist that the family go to the Kingdom Hall to learn about Jehovah.
He rested in his sweat-soaked clothing upon the sticky carpet for another few minutes before dozing back off.
He began to dream about his dad–the guy who seemed to never have time for anything but his religious beliefs and the job at the office. Mr. Sandersen–the respected man with the perfect smile, perfect handshake and a silent wife. The man with a son that was destined to fill his shoes. The man that spent a great deal of time, outside of work, going door to door and spreading the “truth”, as he would boastfully call it.
He began to dream about a man. He and his father were knocking on the man’s door. They had their literature ready. His father was telling him to smile when the lock on the inside of the door was being unbarred. The same light–the sunlight that was blinding him though the crack in his blind–peered from behind the door.
As the door opened, a frail, elderly man appeared. He was looking directly into the boys’ eyes, purposely avoiding his father. The man was completely ignoring the father’s quick-winded spiel when he asked the boy, “Why are YOU here?!” It frightened him, deeply. They both began, simultaneously, to say something that made no sense:
“Did I not tell you to have faith in I–the Son of Man?”.
As the boy stared into the eyes of the frail man, he felt a hand touching his shoulder. He awoke to find his mother bending beside him. She was asking if he would like some breakfast.