"Well Done"
Just wanna make it to heaven
I just wanna make it in
I just wanna cross that river
I wanna be free from sin
Oo, I just want my name written (Oh Lord)
Written in the lambs Book of Life
When this life is over
I just wanna have eternal life
O wanna hear Him say
Well done, well done, well done
You can come on in.
Anybody wanna hear Him say? Yeah [x2]
Wave your hands where I can see 'em...
Anybody wanna see your loved ones
That you've lost along the way
I just wanna walk those streets of gold, yeah
They say the half has never, never been told
I don't want my singing Lord
I don't want it, to be in vain
I just wanna cross that river of God
That's why I'm living, day to day, just to hear him say
I wanna hear 'em say, stand up on your feet, church
Anybody wanna hear Him say, anybody out there?
I wanna hear Him say
Wave your hands right there... of the Lord
I want you to close your eyes, don't loose your focus
Your purpose for living in this life is to serve Jesus Christ
And on the Day of Judgment, when it's all over
He'll say, come on in my good and faithful servant
Come on in, come on, lift your hands and worship
Yeah,
I feel the anointing of God right now, I feel the presence of the Lord right now
If you wanna hear the Lord say well done,
I want you to scream
Anybody wanna hear Him say? [x2]
Hear Him say, I wanna hear Him say
I wanna hear Him say
Yeah, yeah, yeah
You can come on in, my son
You can come on in, my daughter
You can come on in, you can come in
Title: The Bench by Willow Lake
Every morning at precisely 7:15, Margaret Hill would walk down the cobbled path that led to Willow Lake. Dressed in a lavender cardigan, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and sneakers too white for her eighty-one years, she carried a small tote bag filled with birdseed, an old paperback mystery novel, and a thermos of chamomile tea.
At the end of the path was a wooden bench under a willow tree, where Margaret had sat every morning for the past twenty years. The townspeople of Elderwood called it “Margaret’s Bench,” though a plaque reading "In Loving Memory of Walter Hill, 1935–2001" reminded everyone why it really stood there.
Walter had been her husband, her best friend, and her partner in all things. After he passed, Margaret continued their morning ritual alone—sitting at the lake, watching the ducks, and sipping tea. She found peace in the routine and, in a way, felt Walter still sat beside her.
One chilly spring morning, as she settled into her usual spot, Margaret noticed a boy—no more than ten—sitting on the far end of the bench, clutching a sketchpad. His shoes were scuffed, his backpack looked worn, and his glasses kept sliding down his nose. She offered him a gentle smile.
“Morning, young man,” she said.
The boy looked up, startled. “Oh. Hi.”
“Mind if I share the bench?”
He scooted over quickly. “I—I didn’t know anyone came here.”
Margaret chuckled. “I’ve been coming here since before you were born. My name’s Margaret.”
“I’m Leo,” he said, shyly.
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that feels neither awkward nor forced. Margaret poured herself some tea, while Leo continued sketching. She noticed he kept glancing at the ducks, flipping pages, and biting his pencil.
“Do you like to draw?” she asked.
Leo nodded. “Yeah. It helps me think.”
Margaret leaned a bit to the side. “May I see?”
He hesitated, then turned the pad toward her. The sketch was rough but full of emotion—ducks skimming the water, the weeping willow framing the lake, and even a shadowy suggestion of the bench.
“You’re quite talented,” she said sincerely.
Leo looked down, cheeks turning pink. “Thanks.”
The next morning, Leo was there again. And the morning after that. Soon, they fell into a gentle rhythm. Margaret brought extra biscuits. Leo brought more drawings. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they just listened to the birds and wind.
One day, Margaret noticed Leo looked upset.
“Something on your mind, dear?”
He shrugged. “My mom says we might have to move. She got a job far away.”
Margaret nodded slowly. “Change can be hard. But sometimes, it brings good things too.”
“But I like it here,” Leo mumbled. “I like the lake. I like the ducks. I like... you.”
Margaret’s heart softened. “I like you too, Leo.”
They sat quietly, the breeze rippling across the water. Then Margaret said, “You know, my Walter always said that good friends stay with us, even when they’re far away.”
Leo sniffed. “Like memories?”
“Exactly.”
The next day, Margaret didn’t show up.
Leo waited, legs swinging nervously. The ducks came and went. The wind rustled the trees. Still no Margaret.
She didn’t come the next day either.
Or the day after that.
On the fourth day, a young woman with kind eyes approached Leo as he sat on the bench, looking lost.
“Hi,” she said gently. “You must be Leo.”
He blinked. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m Emily. Margaret’s granddaughter. She asked me to find you.”
“Is she okay?”
Emily nodded with a tight smile. “She had a fall and is resting at home. She’ll be fine. But she misses the lake.”
Leo looked down. “I miss her too.”
Emily sat beside him. “She told me all about you—your drawings, your kindness, and how you reminded her of my dad when he was your age.”
Leo brightened a little. “Really?”
“Really. She even said you’d probably be here.”
Over the next week, Emily brought Leo to visit Margaret. They sat together on the porch, looking out at her small flower garden while Leo sketched, and Margaret told stories about the lake.
When summer came, Margaret returned to her bench—slower now, using a cane, but still wrapped in lavender. Leo met her every morning, often bringing new sketches, sometimes stories of his own.
Then came a surprise no one expected.
The mayor of Elderwood announced a small community art project—murals around town celebrating nature, history, and friendship. Leo submitted a sketch of Willow Lake, the ducks, and a gentle figure on a bench beneath a willow tree.
His design was selected.
On the first day of fall, the town gathered near the lake to unveil the finished mural painted on the community center wall. Margaret stood with Leo, holding his hand as the cloth dropped.
There, in bold color, was the lake, the willow, and two people on a bench: one small, one older—friends united by morning rituals and gentle conversation.
Tears shimmered in Margaret’s eyes. Leo squeezed her hand.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I love it,” she whispered.
And so the bench by Willow Lake continued to be a place of quiet peace—but now, it was also a symbol. A reminder that friendship has no age, that kindness needs no reason, and that sometimes, the smallest connections leave the biggest marks.
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Good
I love this