a story of dry bones

For my preaching class I was assigned the task of retelling the story of Elijah and the dry bones. I had a 4 minute time limit. This is roughly what I said:

And then this man came along. He looked weary. You could tell from the way that he carried himself, the weight of the world sat uneasily upon on his shoulders. I was surprised to see someone else this far outside of town. There wasn’t any good reason for being here, except to get away, to hide. That’s what I was doing. I come here sometimes when I need to get away. I make up stories about the bones I see; about the people that they once were. Every time I come out here it looks a little different. The wind, you see, it whips around. And as it goes, it covers some of these old bones in sand. Probably mine too some day. But it uncovers others. New bones, new stories.
I don’t know if he ever saw me. Whatever he was thinking about, it must have been important. Unaware of me seated off in the distance he started mumbling. It was like he had a mouthful of stones. His voice hesitated, apparently unsure of what he was saying. Slowly, very slowly the words dribbled out of his mouth, each one just slightly clearer than the one before. Just as I was beginning to be able to make out the words, his voice trailed off again. All I was able to understand was, “know that I am the Lord.” I figured that this man must have been crazy, so I turned, and began to walk away. My place wasn’t the same with him in it.
As I walked, I heard this sound. Crack! Louder than anything I had ever heard before. At first, almost deafening, but after a few moments, the noise fell to a rattle. I turned back, my hand covering my ears. The man was still there. He looked as surprised as I was. Eyes round as saucers, his hands trembling, knees so weak that it looked as though they would give out at any minute. Then one by one, those bones, they began to move, but not just in the wind as before. They moved as if they had life once again. Each piece with its own mind, its own will. They started to connect up with one another and before I knew it I was looking down at the faces of the people that I had made up those stories about.
Though I had never seen them this way before, I felt like I knew them. There they were, my familiar friends from the desert, suddenly with flesh, but still not whole. The man started speaking again. This time it was not just his knees and his hands trembling, but his voice as well. As he spoke, the wind rose up with boldness as if to make up for the man’s hesitancy. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at the same time. The sand blew so hard that I had to shut my eyes and I feared that I would soon be buried in sand right along with my desert friends. The sand blew all around, each grain stinging as it struck me. My skin started to feel rough, like sand paper. Just when I was certain that this was the end for me, the winds relented.
After what felt like hours, I summoned up the courage to open my eyes again, but gradually. As things came into focus, I slammed my eyes closed again, unable, or perhaps unwilling to believe what I saw. Those dry bones from just a few minutes before were now scores and scores of living, breathing people, standing upright as far as I could see in any direction. I lost sight of that man in the crowd. I lost sight of myself in that crowd.