Between Fire and Protocol
1305 Words
Tomiwa avoided Anu's eyes after the service.
Not because he was upset — no, far from it. The worship had been electric. Real. What she carried wasn’t just vocal skill; it was a weight that stirred things even the sermon hadn’t touched. The atmosphere during the ministration had shifted. People didn’t just listen—they encountered something divine.
But that was exactly the problem.
Because Tomiwa knew what it meant when someone carried fire like that.
Fire attracts attention. And attention demands discernment.
Especially in ministry.
He slipped into the media room to check the recording. It wasn’t part of his duty, but he needed a reason to hide. His mind was too loud.
God, what are You doing? Why now? Why her?
The screen glowed as he clicked through the camera footage. He watched her again. Her eyes closed. Her hands trembling slightly. The sincerity in her voice.
It wasn’t showmanship. It was surrender.
He leaned back and sighed.
"Bro Tomiwa."
A familiar voice. He turned. Pastor Dayo stood at the doorway, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
“You have a minute?”
“Of course, sir.”
They stepped outside into the corridor, where the church's wall fan hummed faintly and the sunlight filtered through dusty windows. The hallway smelled of wood polish and faint cologne. Somewhere outside, children’s laughter echoed from the compound.
Pastor Dayo spoke gently. “I saw what happened during ministration.”
Tomiwa nodded. “She has something deep.”
“She does. But she also looks like someone carrying weight. Not just the spiritual kind.”
Tomiwa nodded again, more slowly this time. “She’s… recovering. I don’t know her story yet.”
The pastor looked toward the auditorium, now mostly empty. “Neither do I. But God has a pattern. He raises wounded warriors.”
He paused.
“You’re spiritually sensitive. That’s why I want you to watch over her. Gently. No pressure. No favoritism. Just… be available. If God is restoring her, she’ll need someone with balance—not just talent.”
Tomiwa swallowed hard. “Yes sir.”
This is what I feared… Assignment disguised as affection…
He masked the storm behind his steady exterior and nodded again.
Anu sat at the back pew after service, waiting for the church crowd to thin. She hated attention. And now… everyone had seen her. Heard her.
A woman had even hugged her during benediction, whispering, “Thank you. Your voice reminded me that God still sees me.”
That should’ve been encouraging.
Instead, it scared her.
What if they start expecting too much? What if I fail again?
She bowed her head and whispered, “Lord, don’t let me disappoint You. Please.”
She was startled by a soft voice behind her.
“You did well.”
She looked up. Tomiwa.
His expression was softer than before. Still guarded, but not cold.
“Thank you,” she replied, managing a small smile.
“There’s a retreat next month,” he said. “Worship leaders, prayer leaders… it’s usually a time of refreshing. I think you should come.”
She tilted her head. “You’re inviting me?”
“It’s not just me. Pastor Dayo asked me to mention it. He sees something in you.”
She hesitated. “Do you?”
That caught him off-guard. His gaze faltered.
“I see grace,” he said finally.
She nodded. “Then I’ll come.”
He smiled lightly. “We usually have a music devotion night before it. Come around during the week. Rehearsal is Thursday.”
“Noted.”
He turned to leave, but then paused. “And Anu?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t shrink because you were once broken.”
She blinked. “Thank you.”
That Night...
Tomiwa journaled before bed—a practice he kept from his university fellowship days. It helped him process things spiritually. Helped him stay accountable.
He scribbled:
"Lord, I need clarity. I can sense she’s not just another choir member. But help me stay focused. Help me guard her destiny, not tamper with it.
And if this is You writing a story between us, let it be Your fire that burns — not mine."
He closed the journal, turned off the light, and whispered into the dark:
“Not my will…”
Anu also couldn’t sleep.
She sat at the edge of her bed, holding her Bible. Her fingers traced Psalm 147:3: He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
She didn’t know what was happening. She had only wanted a fresh start. Just to serve in the background. Not to stand in the spotlight again.
Her past still stung. The betrayal. The shame. The silence from people who once called her sister.
But today felt like God was saying, I still see you. I still want you.
She opened her journal and wrote:
"Lord, You keep calling me forward when all I want is to hide. If this is You, I surrender—again. Give me courage. Give me clarity. Give me roots. Because I don’t want to bloom in fear."
Tears ran down her cheek as she closed the book and whispered:
“Please… let this be real.”
Elsewhere, in a small office downtown, a man stared at a photograph.
It was an old church choir picture. And there she was.
Anuoluwapo.
He ran his finger over the image, then reached for his phone.
“Pastor Felix,” he said when the call connected. “You said you saw her at a church in Lagos?”
“Yes. Why?”
The man’s voice hardened. “Because I need to speak to her. She left too many things unfinished.”
Days later…
Anu attended her first midweek rehearsal.
She had barely stepped into the hall when a voice called out, “Sister Anu!” It was Tolu, the bubbly alto with a knack for cracking jokes between practices. “I saved you a seat. Front row!”
Anu smiled politely and sat, her hands nervously clutching her notepad. The team began with prayers, then dived into worship. Tomiwa led a spontaneous session, his voice carrying that unforced passion. And then, like a seamless invitation, he nodded at her.
“Anu, take the lead on the next one.”
She blinked, stunned. “Me?”
He simply smiled. “Just flow.”
And she did.
The room stilled under her voice. The band slowed to follow her pace. Harmonies rose around her, but her voice carried an ache that came from somewhere deeper. A place only she and God knew.
When they ended, there was silence. A thick, holy hush.
Then claps. Then tears.
Even Tomiwa didn’t speak.
Later that evening, Anu sat outside on the church stairs with Tolu.
“You really carry something,” Tolu said. “It’s not just talent.”
Anu exhaled. “I don’t know what I carry. I just want to be obedient.”
Tolu tilted her head. “Well, obedience has a sound. And tonight, it sounded like healing.”
Meanwhile, Pastor Dayo and Tomiwa sat in the pastor’s office, watching the rehearsal replay from the media team.
“She’s drawing people without trying,” Dayo remarked. “This could be revival—or a storm.”
Tomiwa nodded slowly. “I’ll keep praying. And watching.”
Dayo’s eyes lingered on him. “And guarding your heart?”
Tomiwa looked down. “Trying to.”
Across the city, the man from the photo visited an old friend—a former music director from Anu’s past.
“You’re sure it’s her?”
“Yes. And if she’s leading worship again, I need to know why.”
“What will you do?”
The man’s eyes darkened. “Remind her that fire burns… especially when you play with it.”
To Be Continued…
- Writer
