ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART FIVE
Late afternoon light filtered through the glass panels of the church administrative office, casting soft rectangles across the tiled floor.
The air carried a calm weight, as though the day itself was slowing down to listen.
Outside, the city hummed—distant traffic rolling like a far-off tide, a horn blaring briefly before fading, and the muted throb of a generator pulsing from a neighboring compound.
The sounds never intruded, only framed the stillness inside.
A standing fan rotated lazily near the wall, its soft whirr stirring a cool breeze across the room.
A slim indoor plant by the window trembled faintly, its leaves brushing one another as the air-conditioning unit near the corridor whispered steadily.
Zionel sat behind a minimalist desk, posture composed, a tablet resting beside a leather-bound Bible.
He had just finished reviewing outreach schedules, his attention settling, when the door opened.
Seraphina stepped in, her heels clicking once against the tiles before stopping.
She closed the door gently behind her and rested her palm against it for a brief moment, as though steadying her thoughts before letting them loose into the room.
Zionel rose from behind his desk, the chair sliding back with a muted scrape.
He adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, eyes lifting to meet hers, then gestured calmly toward the chair opposite him, signaling both welcome and readiness.
She sat, crossing her legs slowly. Her gaze lingered on him with a mix of concern and careful curiosity.
A faint smile touched her lips but never fully settled. The fan hummed between them as the air seemed to wait.
Her voice slipped into the quiet, gentle but edged with intention, cutting softly through the background sounds.
Seraphina (softly):
“Pastor Zionel… I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
The words settled in the room like a light tap on glass. The fan continued its rotation, and somewhere outside, a car passed, unseen.
Zionel’s expression eased, the space between them remaining open, unguarded, and calm.
He shook his head slowly as his voice answered with quiet assurance, smoothing the moment.
Zionel (calmly):
“Not at all. You’re welcome. What’s on your heart?”
The question lingered, gentle but attentive. The plant by the window swayed again, and Seraphina’s fingers tightened briefly on the armrest as if the room itself had invited honesty.
She drew in a measured breath, her shoulders rising and falling once. When her gaze lifted fully to him, her tone carried weight beneath its calm.
Seraphina (concerned):
“I’ve been watching you. You’re growing, the church is growing… and yet.”
The pause that followed was thick but unhostile. The fan’s hum filled the gap, and the late sunlight shifted, stretching longer shadows across the tiles.
Her next words came steadier, pressing into the quiet.
Seraphina (inquiring):
“When will we be hearing Mummy G.O in this church?”
The question landed gently but firmly. Zionel blinked, surprise flickering across his face. He leaned back slightly, fingers interlacing as his eyes drifted toward the window, where the sky burned soft gold.
A quiet breath escaped him, turning into a small, knowing smile. His response came lightly, carrying warmth rather than defense.
Zionel (gentle):
“You don’t waste time, do you?”
The air softened. Seraphina’s lips curved upward as she waved a hand, dismissing the tension with practiced ease.
Outside, the city continued its low murmur, unaware of the delicate exchange unfolding within. Her voice followed, playful but deliberate.
Seraphina (smiling):
“I’m serious. You’re not getting younger. A man like you needs a wife, a home, children. Balance.”
Zionel leaned back farther, the chair answering with a soft creak. His smile thinned into thoughtfulness as his gaze dropped to the desk.
His thumb brushed the edge of the Bible, lingering there before his eyes lifted briefly toward the ceiling, as though listening inwardly.
When he spoke, his voice carried reflection rather than resistance.
Zionel (reflective):
“I’m praying about it. Truly. I don’t want to rush what God hasn’t finished speaking about.”
The words settled like a careful offering. Seraphina’s chuckle followed, light and musical, but the room sensed the scrutiny beneath it.
The fan continued its slow sweep, stirring both air and thought. She answered without missing a beat, her tone wrapped in familiarity.
Seraphina (lightly):
“Praying is good, but even Isaac did not find Rebekah alone.”
Her brows lifted as she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Her voice dropped, playful but probing, threading curiosity through humor.
Seraphina (teasing):
“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have told others to join you in prayer. Or…”
Her lips curved with mischief as the moment stretched, shaping each word with playful intent.
Seraphina (playful):
“Are you already eyeing someone?”
Zionel’s shoulders loosened, and a small laugh escaped him, warm and unguarded. He lifted both palms slightly, a gesture of surrender more than denial, as the atmosphere lightened.
His voice carried amusement, light and unrestrained.
Zionel (laughing):
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
The tension slipped away from his face as naturally as it had come. His voice followed, calm and assured, grounded in conviction.
Zionel (confident):
“If I were, the Lord would know before anyone else.”
Seraphina laughed with him, her sound full and reassuring. The fan hummed on, and outside, the city seemed to breathe easier with them.
Her reply carried warmth but landed with truth.
Seraphina (amused):
“Well, time moves fast. Children don’t come from sermons alone.”
Their laughter overlapped briefly, filling the room, then faded into something quieter.
As the sound dissolved, Zionel’s gaze drifted again toward the window, where the sun dipped lower, brushing the tops of nearby buildings with amber light.
He straightened, seriousness settling over him like a mantle. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the desk, grounding himself.
When he spoke, his voice carried Scripture with reverence and resolve.
Zionel (thoughtful):
“The Bible says, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ I want his timing, not mine.”
The words seemed to steady the room. Seraphina tilted her head, listening closely as the late-afternoon glow deepened and the hum of life outside pressed on.
He continued, his tone unwavering, conviction sharpening his calm.
Zionel (steady):
“I’ve learned that marriage isn’t something to fit into ministry like a schedule. It’s a calling too. If I choose wrongly, I won’t just affect myself—I’ll affect the church, the work, everything God has entrusted to me.”
He paused, fingers interlacing again, his voice softening without losing strength.
Zionel (earnest):
“And Scripture also says, ‘He that findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.’ That tells me it must be God’s finding, not my searching.”
Silence followed, deep and reflective. Seraphina leaned back, exhaling slowly as the chair whispered beneath her. Her expression was measured, thoughtful, no longer playful.
Her response came carefully, weighted with concern rather than challenge.
Seraphina (measured):
“That’s… wise. I just don’t want you carrying everything alone. Just remember—God often answers prayers through people.”
Zionel’s smile returned gently, warmth settling in his eyes like settled light after a storm. His reply carried assurance, quiet and firm.
Zionel (assuring):
“I’m not alone. God knows the time. And when he speaks clearly, I’ll obey.”
A brief silence settled, peaceful rather than awkward. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere in the distance, followed by fading footsteps.
The fan continued its steady rhythm as Seraphina rose, smoothing her dress. Her tone lightened again, though her eyes lingered.
Seraphina (lightly):
“Alright then. I’ll stop worrying—for now.”
They shared another quiet laugh, the sound folding easily into the room.
As she reached the door, Zionel bowed his head slightly, palms resting on the desk, the world around him dimming into prayer. His voice lowered, intimate and reverent.
Zionel (soft):
“Lord, order my steps. Let nothing in my life be ahead of you or behind you.”
Seraphina paused with her hand on the handle, then nodded once, something unseen passing across her face. She stepped out, and the door closed gently behind her.
Zionel remained seated for a moment longer. The afternoon light stretched across the floor, the air felt clearer, and a breeze stirred the leaves of the potted plant near the entrance.
Outside, the city breathed on, but inside the office, peace held its ground, settled and unbroken.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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