ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART TWENTY
The rented apartment sat on the third floor of a quiet estate, its tiled hallway cool under bare feet.
Morning light slipped through sheer curtains, laying pale stripes across the living room floor. A ceiling fan hummed softly, steady and unhurried, pushing warm air in slow circles.
Outside, distant traffic murmured like a restrained tide, never rising enough to disturb the stillness within.
On the rug, three figures knelt close together, bodies angled inward as though guarding something sacred.
Zionel’s Bible lay open between them, pages worn thin from use, corners folded and softened by months of returning hands.
Thaniel sat upright, spine straight, palms resting firmly on his thighs, breath slow and measured.
Elara knelt beside Zionel, her head bowed low, fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles had gone pale, the tension of longing running through her arms and shoulders.
The clock on the wall ticked softly, each second stretching the silence rather than breaking it. Minutes thinned into hours. Days folded into weeks. Weeks pressed heavily into months.
Fasting hollowed their bodies, yet something else filled the room—clarity, weight, quiet authority. Sometimes there was nothing but breathing and the soft whisper of pages turning.
Scripture was never rushed. Verses were spoken slowly, allowed to sink, lifted again, and returned to like familiar ground.
Zionel lifted his head, eyes rimmed with tiredness but unwavering. His finger traced a single line on the page, lingering as though listening before speaking.
His voice finally cut through the stillness, low and deliberate, carrying reverence rather than volume.
Zionel (low):
“‘If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face…’”
The words settled into the room like dust finding rest. The fan hummed on. Elara’s breathing hitched softly. Thaniel’s shoulders tightened, attention sharpening.
Zionel paused, breath catching, then his tone deepened as he continued, steady and sure.
Zionel (steady):
“…‘and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.’”
The Scripture lingered in the air. Thaniel’s chest rose with a deep breath as if drawing strength from the words themselves.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows settling on his knees, gaze fixed on the open Bible. His voice emerged quietly, thoughtful, weighted with recognition.
Thaniel (quietly):
“He didn’t say build first. He didn’t say move fast. He said humble… pray… seek… turn.”
The room seemed to agree, silence pressing closer around them. Elara’s lips trembled before parting.
She lifted her face, tears shining but refusing to fall, eyes searching the space above the pages as though waiting for an answer to descend.
Her tone came soft and unsure, carrying both hope and fear.
Elara (soft):
“And when we’ve turned… when we’ve waited… will he still use what was broken?”
Zionel’s hand moved gently, closing the Bible with care, as though laying a child to rest. The sound of the pages settling was quiet but final.
He reached for Elara’s hand, fingers wrapping around hers with calm assurance. When he spoke, his voice was steady, anchored, unshaken.
Zionel (steady):
“He is the God that restores. Joel says, ‘I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.’ Not pieces. Years.”
The weight of the promise rippled outward. Thaniel’s jaw set. Elara’s shoulders loosened slightly. The air felt thicker, charged.
Zionel straightened, resolve gathering in his chest, and his tone rose with quiet authority.
Zionel (resolute):
“‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles.’”
He paused, fingers pressing firmly into the mat beneath him, grounding himself as though holding the moment in place.
His next words came slower, personal, offered upward rather than outward.
Zionel (quietly):
“I waited before, but I did not listen long enough. This time… Lord, I wait until you speak and until my heart stays still when you do.”
Elara’s shoulders trembled, emotion finally breaking through restraint.
She inhaled deeply, then leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against the floor in surrender before lifting her gaze again.
When she spoke, her voice was soft but determined, shaped by repentance and desire.
Elara (softly):
“‘Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.’ I don’t want borrowed fire again. I want what you give… even if it costs me everything.”
Silence settled once more, thick but peaceful, pressing gently instead of heavy.
Three months.
Two weeks.
Strength returned—not loud, not dramatic, but solid and rooted, like something grown underground.
Far away, in places without light, the dark kingdom celebrated too early, unaware of what had been formed in stillness.
Night settled over the city like a held breath.
At the CHRISTLIKE CHURCH compound, security lights flickered against the wide glass frontage of the auditorium. The parking lot lay empty, wind stirring discarded flyers near the gate.
Shadows stretched long across the concrete as figures moved quickly, deliberately, hidden within the darkness.
A door gave way with a sharp crack. Fuel splashed across tiled floors and fabric seats. A match struck.
Flames bloomed sudden and violent, licking glass and sound panels, racing across rows of seats, devouring wood and fabric, climbing curtains like living things hungry for height.
Smoke rolled thick and black, swallowing the ceiling. By the time sirens wailed through the streets, the roof had already surrendered.
Fire alarms screamed into the night. Red lights washed over smoke-blackened walls. Firefighters battled heat and collapsing beams, water hissing angrily against flame.
Long after midnight, the fire gave up its last breath, leaving ruin behind.
Morning came heavy.
Televisions glowed in living rooms. Radios crackled in buses. Phones buzzed endlessly.
“BREAKING NEWS…”
“…popular CHRISTLIKE CHURCH completely destroyed…”
“…suspected electrical fault…”
“…no casualties reported…”
Ash-coated images flooded social media. Charred beams. Melted seats. A cross blackened but still standing, stubborn against destruction.
Inside the temporary meeting hall where church leaders gathered, grief hung thick. Some wept openly. Others argued in hushed tones about rebuilding, voices tight with fear and loss.
Cassian paced near the window, tie loosened, hands trembling, eyes darting as though searching for control that would not return.
Seraphina sat calmly at the center table, dressed elegantly even in mourning, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap.
As murmurs rose too high, her voice slid in smoothly, persuasive and controlled, cutting through the confusion.
Seraphina (persuasive):
“Why rush to rebuild what God may be removing? Didn’t the early saints worship in their houses? Perhaps this is freedom… not loss.”
The room shifted. A few heads nodded slowly. The weight of her words pressed subtly on weakened resolve. She continued, tone gentle but guiding.
Seraphina (gentle):
“Let’s not rush. Everyone can worship at home. God is everywhere and he looks at the heart, not the building.”
Silence followed. No one argued. Resistance faded quietly, like a candle starved of air.
Across town, in the quiet apartment, Elara stood near the window, phone in her hand. Flames replayed endlessly on the screen, looping destruction.
She lowered the device and turned toward the room, breath steadying. Zionel sat at the small dining table, hands clasped, eyes closed, face set in calm focus.
Thaniel leaned against the wall, arms folded, gaze lifted toward the ceiling as though listening beyond it.
Elara’s shoulders rose and fell once before her voice entered the space, quiet but certain.
Elara (quiet):
“This too is part of Seraphina’s plan. No gathering… no accountability… she may burn the building… but not the altar.”
Thaniel exhaled slowly, tension easing from his chest. He moved to the window, pushing it open.
Cool morning air drifted in, carrying the sound of the city breathing. Without turning, his voice came calm and grounded.
Thaniel (calm):
“But the Lord never lost his people when temples fell. He only revealed who truly belonged to him.”
The breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere, a horn sounded faintly. Thaniel’s tone firmed, Scripture rising naturally from within him.
Thaniel (firm):
“‘The kingdom of God cometh not with observation… for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.’ The Lord is stripping dependence on buildings so he can rebuild dependence on him.”
Zionel’s jaw tightened—not in fear, but understanding settling into place. His voice followed quietly, resolute.
Zionel (quietly):
“So when they burn what hands built… it will not touch what God restored.”
Elara nodded slowly. She reached out and gently touched Zionel’s wrist, grounding him back into the room, back into the moment. Her tone carried assurance, unshaken.
Elara (assured):
“They think they ended a church. They don’t know they awakened witnesses.”
Silence settled again—not empty, but full, charged with quiet victory.
They knelt once more, right there between the table and the sofa, city noise humming faintly beyond the walls. Evening sun filtered in, dust motes dancing lazily in its glow.
Outside, a breeze moved through the trees lining the estate road.
Zionel’s voice rose first, prayerful and sincere.
Zionel (praying):
“Lord, teach us to build only what you authorize.”
Elara followed, her words barely above a whisper, but steady.
Elara (whispering):
“Keep our hearts clean… even without applause.”
Thaniel’s voice came last, low and unwavering, sealing the moment.
Thaniel (unwavering):
“Let your will stand, even when structures fall.”
When they rose, the room felt lighter, as though something unseen had lifted. Peace settled gently.
Outside, the day moved on.
Somewhere in the city, CHRISTLIKE CHURCH was now only rubble.
But in that small apartment, something steadier remained.
And the night passed quietly.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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