The Island of Heavenly Daze by Angela Hunt

don’t like that kind of story.” Georgie whimpered like a lonely puppy, and Winslow’s heart contracted in pity at the sound.
    â€œAh, but Georgie,” Zuriel answered, his voice husky and filled with awe, “it is in that kind of story that the wings of your imagination can take flight. Imagination and creativity are good gifts from God, and he wants us to use them.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Can men fly, Georgie?”
    Georgie was laughing now. “Not unless we’re in an airplane.”
    â€œYou’re right. But Orville and Wilbur Wright used their imaginations to pretend that men could fly—and then they figured out how to make it work. They made the first airplane, and because they did, today men can fly from America to Europe in a matter of hours. We can fly to the moon . . . and who knows? Maybe you will go there one day.”
    â€œMaybe.” Georgie fell silent for a moment, then piped up again. “What’s the fourth kind, Zuriel?”
    â€œI hadn’t forgotten.” In a deep and reasonable voice, Zuriel continued. “The Bible is the fourth kind of story, Georgie. It’s so special it deserves its own category. For the words of your Bible are the words of God, written by men who listened to and obeyed the Spirit. And though many of the stories in the Bible do not seem possible, they are completely true. Men can walk on water, they can rise from the dead, they can feed five thousand with a little bread and a few fishes if God is willing to work a miracle. And because the Bible promises that God will never leave or forsake you, you should never worry about wicked witches. You are safe in the palm of God’s hand, Georgie, and he will not let you go.”
    Zuriel murmured something else and Georgie responded, but Winslow was no longer listening. His gaze was fastened to the front of the church, where a single spotlight illuminated the door and the spiraling steeple.
    Why did they need the church? In the past three minutes, from a little boy’s bedroom window, he had heard a sermon as profound as anything he had ever preached. The Minor Prophets could add little to Zuriel’s simple message, and the fact that Georgie was no longer wailing proved its effectiveness.
    Why did this town need him? Charles and Babette hadn’t been able to calm their son, but Zuriel had. And there were others on the island with the same gift of quiet assurance, people who seemed to instinctively understand spiritual things. Just last winter, in fact, when Winslow had the flu, Yakov Smith, the graphic artist who lived on the second floor of the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, had stepped in to fill the pulpit. Nearly every person in town, eager to assure Winslow that he needn’t worry about rushing to get well, had stopped by to tell him about Yakov’s wonderful, colorful sermon. Apparently the man had picked up some Yiddish before coming to Maine, and he had the entire congregation in stitches as he tried to explain why Jonah, the minor prophet of the month, was a shlump —a depressing wet blanket.
    A wave of self-pity rose and threatened to engulf Winslow, but he pushed it back. He would not entertain these dark thoughts. He knew he wasn’t colorful or entertaining, but he could learn. He had faithfully followed the Lord for most of his life, and he had learned a few spiritual lessons during that time. He had wisdom to share . . . he just had to find a more interesting way to share it.
    He glanced down at the soft paunch overhanging his belt. While he concentrated on improving the quality of his product, it wouldn’t hurt to improve the packaging as well. He could stand to lose a few pounds and engage in a little exercise. He could look through the Sears catalog and see about ordering a couple of new suits, maybe something double-breasted and in an autumnal color . . . after all, folks naturally warmed to bright earth colors.
    He rocked