Scripture: 2 Timothy 1:7 — “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
Scene 1 — The Call for Help
Sunday afternoons in New Jordan had a rhythm of their own. Church let out in a slow spill — not a release so much as a drift. Folks lingered, shaking hands, laughing in little knots, gossip floating like pollen in the warm air. Kids ran between pews, their shoes clapping the wooden floor in rhythms the organ had hinted at an hour earlier. The oscillating fans cut off one by one, the sanctuary air growing thick again, heavy with perfume, starch, and fried chicken carried in foil pans from the fellowship hall.
Thomas Gray stood at the center aisle, his smile set in that practiced pastoral balance between warmth and brevity. Shake the hand, nod the head, send them off with a word that sounds like care but doesn’t promise more than a man can give. “See you Wednesday,” he said more than once. It always sounded like both an invitation and an escape hatch.
Alisha moved near the front, helping Sister Evans gather hymnals into neat stacks. Her laugh floated up from some joke too quiet for Thomas to catch. That laugh carried — light, quick, never forced. The kind of laugh that made you notice the silence after it left.
That’s when the Daniels family appeared. Husband stiff-backed, wife wringing her hands raw, teenage son slouched and staring like he was watching something none of them could see. They hesitated a step inside the aisle, then inched closer.
“Pastor Gray?” the father asked. His voice sounded scraped thin, like it had traveled too far. “Could we… have a word?”
Thomas raised his brows, gave that warm half-smile, then glanced at Alisha. She drifted over without being asked, standing just behind him like she was meant to.
The mother’s words spilled too quickly, a dam cracked under weight. “It’s the house,” she said. “Cold spots. Things moving. He—” she touched her son’s arm, “—he hears voices. We’ve prayed. We’ve tried.”
The boy’s gaze didn’t lift, didn’t waver. His lips pressed together like someone had sewn them.
Thomas nodded slowly, voice pastoral smooth. “We can come by. Walk through, pray with you.”
“We’ll come by,” Alisha said at the same moment, firmer. Her tone carried the finality of someone who decided for both of them.
Out in the vestibule, Thomas muttered, “You know this isn’t your job.”
She smirked. “Don’t get used to this — this ain’t my job.”
He grinned back. “I think you’re enjoying it.”
“You wish.”
The banter hung between them like something lighter than the story they had just heard — a shield, fragile but needed.
Scene 2 — The Drive & The Door
The car hummed down a narrow street, cicadas drilling outside, their relentless song rising like a second congregation. Houses sat squat and tired, porches sagging, yards littered with bikes and chairs that had seen better summers.
Thomas tapped the steering wheel without rhythm, eyes fixed ahead. Alisha sat angled toward the window, unusually quiet.
Finally, she spoke, soft enough that he almost missed it. “Is it well with your soul?”
Thomas turned, startled. “That’s not small talk.”
She gave the faintest smile, but her eyes stayed steady. “Do you even believe in God? You hardly ever talk about Him. Not really. Not even in your sermons.”
Thomas chuckled, low, reflexive. “You? Dancing around a question? You’re usually direct. Why now?”
“Because I needed you to hear it,” she said, her gaze still on the glass, the houses rolling by.
He exhaled, leaned into his defense. “I talk about God plenty. I just… leave Him room to breathe between my words.”
Silence filled the car, thick as the heat.
At last he added, softer, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
She didn’t reply. The weight of it rode in the car until he pulled up at the Daniels’ sagging porch.
They got out, walking side by side toward the steps. Neither spoke. The question trailed them like a third presence.
Before Thomas could knock, the door opened. Mrs. Daniels stood with a smile stretched too thin. “Thank you for coming.”
Scene 3 — The Prayer
Inside felt like October stolen into July. Cold pressed against their skin, not the clean chill of an air-conditioner but the wrong kind, damp and unsettled.
Family photos leaned crooked along the hall. A rocking chair swayed once in the living room before stilling as they entered. A King James Bible lay open on the coffee table, its page caught mid-psalm.
They gathered hands. The boy’s palm was stiff as a board. The father’s hand slick. The mother’s fingers trembled against Thomas’s.
Thomas began, voice warm but thin: “Lord, we’re here because this family is yours.”
The air dropped colder.
Alisha picked up seamlessly: “You see what they can’t see. You hear what they can’t name. Make this house belong to You again.”
A hymnal slid half off the table, spine scraping wood.
Thomas gritted his teeth. “Not a spirit of fear, but of power, and love, and a sound mind.”
The rocking chair creaked, once, sharp as a gun cock.
Alisha’s voice pressed firm: “Whatever whispers in these walls, it can’t stay.”
The boy whimpered; his mother mouthed silent words.
“In Jesus’ name,” Thomas finished, quieter. “Amen.”
The cold loosened its grip. The room stilled. Everyone exhaled like surfacing from water.
They stepped outside. The Delta heat hit them hard, almost offensive, almost merciful.
Scene 4 — Brother Levi’s Story
Next door, Brother Levi leaned on his fence. Yard cluttered with half-done projects — rusted mower, lumber stacked like a forgotten hymn. His eyes were river-dark, full of history.
“You two,” he called. “Lemme tell you something.”
He spoke of the flood, decades back — water rising, sirens constant, neighbors stacking sandbags till their backs broke. How church folks prayed on the hour and Roadhouse folks fed whoever showed. How one night they pushed back tables at Miller’s, raised the choir onstage, and sang until the river seemed to back away.
Alisha’s smile was wistful. “I’d like to have seen that.”
Levi sighed. “I’d like to have kept it.”
Thomas’s patience cracked. “So what are you telling me, Levi? Why are you telling me this? Come on, man — spit it out.”
Levi shifted, unbothered by the edge in his tone. “When God’s people stand together, the storm don’t know where to land.”
Thomas exhaled sharp. “Right. Thanks.” He stalked toward the car, jaw tight.
Alisha lingered, touched the fence in quiet acknowledgment, then followed.
“Everybody’s got a parable,” Thomas muttered.
“Only the good ones make you mad,” she said.
Scene 5 — Miller’s Roadhouse
Miller’s buzzed with neon and grease. Fryers hissed, glasses clinked, guitars hummed lazy half-chords.
Thomas spotted Alisha at a corner table with Marcus — city-sharp, polished in a way that played casual. Their laughter carried under the noise.
Marcus saw Thomas, raised a hand in acknowledgment. Alisha smiled, but stayed seated.
Miller’s chin tilt sent Thomas to the stage. Guitar snug against him, he glanced at Alisha. She gave the barest nod — you’ve got this.
He held her gaze too long, then started: “A Change Is Gonna Come.”
Slow. Heavy. Like a prayer half-believed. The room hushed, fryers quieting in their own way.
Marcus watched, eyes sharp. Alisha didn’t look away.
The last chord rang long. The crowd clapped soft, unsure whether to disturb what lingered.
Marcus rose, shook Thomas’s hand. “Good song. Good choice.”
“Seemed like it fit,” Thomas replied, measured.
Marcus glanced at Alisha before sitting back down. Thomas walked toward the bar for water he didn’t need.
Scene 6 — The Sermon
Morning light cut across worn pews. Thomas spotted Levi three rows back, hat in his lap.
Before service, Thomas leaned close. “I was wrong to cut you off yesterday. Thank you for saying what you did.”
Levi nodded once. “You’re all right. Just don’t be all right alone.”
At the pulpit, Thomas didn’t mention the Daniels. He told the flood story instead. Voices raised at Miller’s, the river held back, strangers turning to neighbors.
“Fear scatters us,” he said, voice firm. “Love and a sound mind pull us close.”
He tied it all back to 2 Timothy 1:7 — courage born not of absence of fear, but of standing together.
Scene 7 — The Figure
Mid-sermon, his words stuttered.
Third pew. Behind Alisha.
A figure stood there.
Tall. Skin pulled taut, clothes hanging like soaked rags. A grin split wide, teeth jagged, glassy, too many. Hollow eyes dug into him.
No one else saw. A baby cooed. A program fluttered.
The air thickened. His chest crushed. He clutched the pulpit white-knuckled.
The figure tilted its head, grin stretching wider. For one instant, Thomas saw his own reflection laughing in one of those shard-like teeth.
Then it vanished.
He dragged air into his lungs. Forced his mouth to finish: “—and of a sound mind.” His voice an octave lower, trembling.
The congregation leaned in, sensing weight but not terror.
He ended steady as he could.
Levi’s gaze lingered, knowing.
Near the third pew, Alisha touched the wood where the figure had stood. She looked at him. “Lunch?”
“Yeah,” he croaked.
Outside, sunlight pressed hot and honest. Wind stirred oaks like a quiet choir.
Thomas brushed the pulpit before leaving, testing whether wood was still wood.
It was warm. He almost believed that meant something. Almost.
