ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART THIRTEEN
Late morning light filtered through the tall glass panels of CHRISTLIKE CHURCH, breaking into pale rectangles that lay quietly across the polished tiled floor.
The steady hum of the air-conditioning filled the vast auditorium, cool but unable to chase away the faint unease that lingered in the room like unfinished prayer.
Ushers moved gently between the rows, shoes brushing softly against the tiles, straightening chairs, guiding latecomers with restrained smiles.
Some members scrolled through their phones; others bowed their heads, lips moving in whispered petitions.
Beyond the thick walls, traffic rolled along the main road, distant horns muted into a low, constant murmur.
Behind the pulpit, Zionel stood motionless a moment longer than usual. His hands rested on the transparent lectern, fingers gripping the edges as though it were the only anchor keeping him steady.
His shoulders looked narrower now, his suit hanging looser than it once did.
A faint sheen of sweat lined his forehead as he reached up and adjusted the microphone, his fingers trembling despite the cool air.
His breathing came shallow and uneven, each breath measured as if strength had to be rationed.
In the front row, Elara sat with her legs crossed neatly, a tablet balanced on her lap. Her gaze never left him, sharp and attentive, weighing every movement.
Zionel lifted the microphone slowly. The subtle scrape of its stand echoed too loudly in the hushed hall.
The congregation leaned forward, anticipation stirring like a restrained wave. He cleared his throat, the sound ringing across the sanctuary.
His voice broke the stillness, low and restrained, carrying less force than it once did.
Zionel (softly):
“Praise the Lord.”
A scattered response rose from the congregation, polite but thin, echoing back without its former fire.
The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the high ceiling. A few people shifted in their seats, glancing around as the moment settled.
Zionel swallowed and let his eyes drift briefly toward Elara. She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze, then tapped the tablet once—subtle, precise, unmistakably directive.
He nodded faintly and turned back to the congregation, shoulders tightening as if bracing himself.
His tone steadied, measured, carefully controlled.
Zionel (measured):
“Today… we’ll be brief. God understands our weaknesses. He knows we are human.”
A hush followed his words. The air seemed to pause with him, the faint hum of the air-conditioning pressing into the silence. Heads tilted. Pens stopped moving. Even the ushers slowed.
He drew in another breath, eyes flickering across the pews, then spoke again, softer now.
Zionel (softly):
“Let us… let us open our Bibles to the book of Romans.”
A slight tremor passed through his voice. A ripple of quiet movement followed as pages rustled and screens glowed.
A few brows furrowed. Others exchanged brief glances, sensing something fragile beneath the calm surface.
Zionel swallowed and continued, his tone pushing forward before hesitation could claim it.
Zionel (calmly):
“For the scripture saith, ‘Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.’”
The verse hung in the air, heavy and unfinished, as if waiting for fire that never arrived.
The digital screen behind him glowed with the same words, steady and bright, contrasting sharply with the frailty in his delivery.
His chest rose sharply as he paused, fingers tightening around the pulpit edge. He pressed on, quicker now, as though outrunning doubt. His voice quickened, edged with urgency and resolve.
Zionel (quickly):
“We are human. We try. God understands our weakness. He is… he is love.”
A few nods appeared among the rows. Shoulders eased. The tension softened, replaced by quiet relief. Zionel leaned slightly into the lectern, his grip firm, his knuckles pale.
The screen shifted to another verse, already prepared. His tone was restrained, calm and steady, carrying weight without haste.
Zionel (restrained):
“The Bible says, ‘For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.’”
The familiar words settled gently over the congregation. Some sank deeper into their seats. A soft exhale moved through the room like a shared sigh.
From the front row, Elara leaned forward, resting her elbow lightly on her knee. Her eyes were calm, approving, steadying him from a distance.
Zionel continued, his voice lowering, careful not to stir too deeply.
Zionel (assuring):
“So don’t be too hard on yourselves. Grace covers us… even when we fall.”
His eyes dropped briefly, scanning lines he had memorized rather than received. His shoulders sagged, and time slipped by unnoticed—fifteen minutes passing like a hurried breath.
When he lifted his hand, it hovered uncertainly in the air, trembling slightly, then dropped back to the pulpit as though the effort alone had drained him.
He spoke a little longer, words restrained, controlled, safe. There was no altar call. No lingering silence. Just a brief prayer, trimmed of weight. His tone came hastily, clipped and rushed, lacking the usual depth.
Zionel (hastily):
“Father, we thank you for your love. Continue to be with us. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
The congregation responded almost immediately.
Congregation (subdued):
“Amen.”
The word echoed through the hall, some voices relieved, others uncertain. The service ended almost as soon as it began, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake.
As people began to disperse, low murmurs filled the auditorium. Shoes scraped lightly against tiles. Conversations sparked and faded.
Some faces showed relief; others carried confusion that lingered like unanswered questions.
Zionel stepped back from the pulpit almost immediately. Elara was already rising, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she moved toward him.
She reached him before the assistant pastor could, placing herself naturally at his side.
Her voice came smooth and composed, firm enough to sound reassuring.
Elara (composed):
“You did well. You shouldn’t have pushed yourself.”
Zionel nodded weakly, allowing her to guide him down the side steps. His palm brushed the railing, fingers trembling as they slid along the cool metal.
The sanctuary lights glinted off the transparent lectern behind them, now empty. His voice came low, barely more than breath.
Zionel (quietly):
“I feel… empty. Like my strength is leaking.”
Elara smiled gently, slipping her arm through his, steadying him as she adjusted his jacket with practiced care. Her presence seemed to quiet the moment, sealing it.
Her tone was soft and reassuring, calm with gentle authority.
Elara (reassuring):
“That’s why I’m here. You don’t need to carry everything alone. Your body needs rest. I’ll prepare something lighter for the next service.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t argue. He never did anymore. He simply nodded again, eyes distant, letting himself be led away.
Later that afternoon, the church office compound lay calm beneath the sun. Interlocking tiles stretched from the gate to the building, their surface warm and clean.
Potted palms lined the walkway, their long leaves swaying gently in the breeze.
Security guards stood near the entrance, radios clipped to their belts, eyes alert.
Thaniel approached the gate slowly, a small Bible tucked beneath his arm. His shirt was neatly pressed, but his face was drawn, eyes heavy with concern.
He stopped a few steps from the guard post, the quiet of the compound pressing in.
His voice carried respect, steady but restrained.
Thaniel (respectfully):
“I’m here to see Pastor Zionel.”
One guard glanced at him, then down at the clipboard in his hand, flipping a page slowly. The other shifted his stance.
The reply came firm, unmoved.
Guard (firm):
“Do you have an appointment?”
Thaniel exhaled softly through his nose and shook his head. His voice was calm, steady, carrying quiet insistence.
Thaniel (calm):
“I’ve been coming for weeks. I just need a few minutes. It’s important.”
The guards exchanged a brief look. His tone was authoritative, firm, leaving no room for argument.
Guard (authoritative):
“Instructions from Mummy G.O, Elara. No one is allowed to see the pastor except church leaders.”
Thaniel’s jaw tightened. He shifted his weight, the soles of his shoes scraping quietly against the tiles.
The palms rustled again, the breeze brushing past like a passing witness. His voice was measured, firm yet patient.
Thaniel (measured):
“Please. Tell him Thaniel is here.”
The second guard straightened, lifting a hand in warning. His tone was sharp and cautionary, firm with authority.
Guard (warning):
“Sir, don’t make this difficult. You need to leave.”
Thaniel inhaled slowly, then lifted his eyes toward the tinted office windows. The curtains inside were drawn tight. No movement. No shadow. No sign of life.
He stepped back, nodding once in reluctant acceptance. His voice came low, almost a whisper, heavy with plea and humility.
Thaniel (whispering):
“Lord, give me grace.”
The breeze stirred the palms again as he turned away from the gate, his steps slow and deliberate. The compound remained quiet behind him—unnaturally quiet, as if holding its breath.
That evening, in Zionel’s private bedroom, soft yellow light spilled from a bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across the walls.
The curtains were half drawn, and the distant hum of traffic seeped faintly through the window cracks. A ceiling fan whirred steadily overhead.
Zionel lay propped against pillows, eyes closed, his face pale with fatigue. Elara sat beside him, a notebook open on her lap, pen poised, already planning ahead.
Her voice came gentle, controlled.
Elara (gently):
“Tomorrow, we’ll use Galatians. Something comforting. No confrontation.”
Zionel opened his eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling as though searching for answers written there. His tone was faint, soft with resignation and quiet surrender.
Zionel (faint):
“Whatever you think is best.”
She smiled and began to write, the pen scratching softly against the paper. The room settled into silence, broken only by the low hum of the fan and the distant city beyond the walls.
Somewhere across the city, in a small apartment, Thaniel knelt on the tiled floor. The lights were off.
Moonlight slipped through the window, tracing the outline of his bowed shoulders. His hands were clasped tightly, knuckles pale with pressure.
His whisper carried upward, heavy with burden and faith.
Thaniel (whispering):
“Lord, you see him. Don’t let him slip beyond your reach.”
The room grew still. A quiet peace settled, solemn and weighty, as though heaven itself paused to listen.
Outside, the night deepened, and the city breathed on—unaware of the spiritual battle unfolding in silence.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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