Wheeling Gull Isle flapkrasha

"oh, no. bartholomew is very real." heda settled in the softer leaves at the edge of the denmouth; she opened her arms to her children and for a moment only savored the feel of their presence, their small upturned faces waiting to be filled with the love of god.
"i met bartholomew when i was very angry," heda began, for it was in this emotion that she had finally recognized her own weakness. "i did not know how to be patient, and i hated almost everyone around me because they kept leaving."
would it surprise them, heda wondered, to know that their mother harbored negativity, that she had fed it inside herself? in some ways she hoped that it would, for it would present itself in the lesson of change.
she explained how she had gradually softened, began to question bartholomew about god. how each day they had shared in the beauty of a new place, and each day he had taught her to give thanks for it. 
how she had told him things that she'd never said before, and he treated her with the same vulnerability.
"in one of my hardest moments, bartholomew taught me that god never leaves. he always finds you."
heda told them about the first things she had seen on the island, the first time he had showed her the verdant detailing of each place. "this is where god tested bartholomew," she told her little ones, gesturing to the darkness. "it's where we brought those who needed healing and needed to be alone, here. it is a place where god speaks in another voice."
heda loved bartholomew, and it veritably poured from her as she continued, telling the story of sweetharbor, its creation, the flock upon the mount which, once healed, sought their own way. it was what they had hoped, that their island would embody god's peace for everyone who came here.
but heda had never wanted to be without the gentle prophet who had drawn her from the waters of strife.
by the telling's end, tears pearled upon her lashes, even as her smile remained radiantly upturned with the memories.