ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART ONE
Night rested softly over the city. The glow of distant streetlights filtered through sheer curtains, laying thin gold lines across the tiled floor of a quiet apartment bedroom.
A ceiling fan hummed in slow rhythm above, pushing warm air in gentle circles.
Outside, muffled car engines rolled past, and somewhere far away, a lone siren cried and faded, leaving the night whole again.
Zionel lay asleep on a neatly made bed, one arm resting across his chest, his breathing deep and steady, his face calm beneath the dim light. The room held no tension—only rest.
Then his body shifted.
His brow tightened. His fingers twitched. The air seemed to pause.
His eyes opened—yet the bedroom vanished.
Light surrounded him.
Not harsh. Not blinding. Soft. Living. Like warmth made visible.
The ground beneath his knees felt solid yet unreal, as though formed from polished glass.
A gentle breeze passed through the space, though there were no walls, no ceiling, no sky—only depth, glow, and presence pressing gently against his spirit.
Zionel’s breathing slowed even as his heart thundered. His lips parted, but no words formed. Awe overtook thought.
The space stirred—not with sound, but with authority.
A presence drew near.
A voice moved through the light, close and intimate, carrying weight that bent the soul.
Voice (gentle):
“Zionel.”
The sound carried through him like a tide. Strength left his knees. His body lowered without resistance, palms touching the glowing surface beneath him.
His head bowed instinctively, shoulders trembling as reverence swallowed fear.
The light deepened, responding to his surrender, and the unseen realm seemed to lean closer.
The voice returned, steady and sure.
Voice (assured):
“I have heard thy prayer.”
The air vibrated softly, as though creation itself bore witness. The glow thickened, wrapping around him, steadying his breath even as tears gathered in his eyes.
Then the voice spoke again, slower now, inviting yet sovereign.
Voice (inviting):
“Ask what thou wilt that I should do for thee.”
Zionel’s chest rose sharply. His hands pressed against the ground as he lifted himself slightly, still kneeling. His lips trembled, his eyes glistening. The moment stretched, heavy with eternity.
His voice emerged at last, fragile yet sincere.
Zionel (whispering):
“Lord…”
The word echoed through the light. His throat tightened. He swallowed, drawing breath as the glow waited, patient and attentive. His tone lowered, losing all trace of ambition.
Zionel (humbly):
“I don’t want riches. I don’t want fame. I don’t want power for myself.”
The space seemed to still further, as though the unseen realm listened closely. His hands curled inward, fingers pressing into his palms. His words softened, weighted with sincerity.
Zionel (earnest):
“Give me grace to serve you faithfully… every day.”
The breeze shifted gently, carrying warmth across his bowed head. His voice steadied, conviction growing.
Zionel (resolute):
“Give me strength to live holy… to walk clean… to please you when no one is watching.”
Tears gathered and fell, vanishing as they touched the radiant ground. He lifted his head slightly, eyes wet, unashamed. His voice broke, urgency trembling through each word.
Zionel (pleading):
“Send me to preach the gospel… to win souls… to bring men to Christ.”
Silence followed—not empty, not cold—but full, alive, heavy with promise. The light did not fade. It waited.
Then the voice returned, deeper, fuller, layered with eternal authority.
Voice (affirming):
“Because thou hast not asked for riches…”
A gentle radiance spread outward, as though the words themselves shaped the light. The space expanded, breathing with the declaration.
Voice (authority):
“Because thou hast not asked for honor…”
The glow intensified softly, washing over him like fire that did not burn. The voice softened, carrying approval without losing authority.
Voice (pleased):
“But hast asked for spiritual things…”
Warmth wrapped around him, settling into his bones, sinking into his spirit. The voice rang clearly, each word deliberate and unshakable.
Voice (declarative):
“I will add all things unto thee.”
The words carried weight, pressing truth into the ground beneath him.
Voice (authoritative):
“I will make thee great upon the earth.”
The space pulsed gently, like a living heart. The voice thundered softly, power woven through every syllable.
Voice (powerful):
“I will make thee powerful — not by might, not by riches — but by my Spirit.”
Peace crashed over him in a holy wave. His shoulders shook as quiet tears fell freely. His head dropped again, not in fear, but in worship. The light held him, sealed him, marked him.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
Zionel gasped.
Darkness surrounded him once more. Sweat coated his face and neck. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he sat upright in bed, breathing hard.
The ceiling fan spun steadily above. The hum returned. The city sounds were real again. The bed beneath him was solid, unyielding.
His hands trembled.
He swung his legs off the bed and slid down to the tiled floor. The cold surface met his knees, sharp and grounding.
He did not hesitate.
He knelt.
His palms pressed together. His forehead lowered. His breathing slowed as the room seemed to thicken with stillness. The air carried weight—quiet, holy, attentive.
The glow was gone, yet the presence remained.
His voice broke the silence.
Zionel (softly):
“Father…”
The word cracked open his chest. His tone trembled, yet faith stirred beneath it.
Zionel (submissive):
“If this be from you… seal it in me.”
The fan continued its slow rotation. The curtains shifted faintly in the night breeze, brushing against the window frame as though listening.
Zionel lifted his face toward the ceiling, eyes closed, hands still joined. His tone emptied itself, surrender carried in every word.
Zionel (yielded):
“Take my life. Use me. Break me. Build me.”
His voice steadied as fear loosened its grip, replaced by resolve.
Zionel (firm):
“Let me never drift. Let me never trade holiness for comfort.”
The room held its breath. Outside, the city slept on, unaware. His words carried steadfastness, unwavering and full of devotion.
Zionel (devout):
“Let my altar never die.”
He remained there.
Minutes stretched into hours. The darkness thinned slowly. The sounds of the night softened as the first pale hint of dawn brushed the curtains with muted light.
Inside the room, Zionel stayed on his knees—praying, weeping, surrendering. The air felt clean. The weight eased, replaced by quiet assurance.
The presence lingered.
And the room rested in silence.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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