I am fairy-tale person. I sit here, cross legged, on the worn, tired stage realizing the building around me is nothing like a fabricated fairy-tale or an adventurous storybook. The long, door marked hallway to my left does not lead to an enchanted stone chamber where a beautiful maiden is awaiting her rescue. It does lead, however, to the entrance room of two elevators where small prayer groups are held to call out in devoted fellowship to our Lord. This stage has not supported the weight of a hefty king addressing his subjects, but it stands week after week beneath the tall, gaunt guitarist as he pours out his faith into the worship he leads. I sit here alone, yet I do not hear the shaky and rumbling speech of the air vents cycling air between the walls that are covered with framed frozen memories of missions to far off countries. I can hear, taste, feel, smell, and see the twists and turns of not only my own journey, but all the others that have left footprints of their walk in the way of the Lord in this building. 

I can hear the threatening, burning tears filling my disheartened eyes as the guitarist tells me to not be afraid for he will sing me the words of our God until the scars I draw myself fade away. I can feel the jubilant laughter spilling and overflowing from my lips as I look at the most ordinary rooms where I met the most extraordinary friends. The smell of slumped burning candles fills my nose as I longingly glance at the room that encloses forty hours of continual prayer. The sweet taste of the words of the worshipers consumes the air, and I can taste the passion of their selfless faith on my tongue with every mandatory breath I take. I can see the two glass doors that are holding all of this in from the outside world, and I suddenly remember…

Macey's house smelled of broken-in baseball cleats, girl's suffocating perfume, fresh out of their packaging Matchbox cars, and a lingering trace of the harsh aroma of cleaning supplies. I cannot remember a single moment of solid, tranquil peace ever filling this house. The twins, as much alike as they were different, were always arguing. Beckett was watching colorful, obnoxious cartoons while conversing with his imaginary co-announcer of the Matchbox grand prix hosted in the challenging track of the living room coffee table. Meredith was flipping through the worn and torn pages of an out-dated textbook in attempt to complete that one endless, never completed assignment.  Yet within the interior designed walls of Macey's bedroom none of that was audible, for we had left the chaos of the outside world. The sounds of magnificent sword fights, mystical spells, and childish giggles echoed in this hallowed room of imagination. Those four walls held the foundation of a medieval castle, an undiscovered tree-top hide out, an underwater kingdom two thousand leagues below the surface, and the birthplace of an uncontainable magic so ordinary most would not even say it is magic at all…

I always knew the feeling that filled my inner most being when I enter this building is all too familiar, but now I realize why. That comfort, warmth, freedom to create, sense of imagination, and openness to dream of my childhood playmate's bedroom are the same ingredients that make up the simple, ordinary, out of this world magic that affects the lives of the students that enter this building. I am not sitting in a castle or a storybook scene, but I am sitting in a building so engulfed by the one true King that it cannot contain the lifelong faith that is so extraordinary most would not even say it is ordinary at all.