Dedicated to M-Dola

Zarinna fiddled with the ballpen she held as she stared afar, her focus drawn to the window of her room instead of the pile of papers she was supposed to be grading. The afternoon light filtered through the thin curtains, hazy and soft, carrying with it the faint scent of pine from the mountains. Yet, despite the peace outside, her chest felt as though a storm churned within it. Gina's invitation whispered in her mind, over and over again.

Would you like to visit our church?

She drew in a sharp breath, forcing her gaze back to the papers before her, attempting to summon the concentration she no longer possessed. The handwriting she tried to read blurred into unreadable strokes, and after several frustrated seconds, she let the pen fall. The sharp clatter against the wooden floor seemed to echo louder than it should have.

Groaning, Zarinna let go of the stack of papers and leaned back against her chair, releasing a long, weary sigh. The question weighed heavily on her heart. She could not push it away.

Am I ready to go to church again?
Would God even accept me?

The thought pierced deep, and her heart tightened painfully. What would I do with my life without God? The ache spread, sharp and familiar. She swallowed hard, resisting the tears that gathered in her eyes.

Nathan's face surfaced in her mind—the warmth of his voice, the gentleness of his smile—followed by the piercing truth of why loving him was wrong. Her hands clenched into shaking fists.

Why? her heart screamed silently. Why me?

She hated that she loved him. She hated that every fiber of her being longed for him. And she hated herself most of all—for being so weak, for not being able to tear her heart away from what could never be. Her soul longed for God; just the thought of Him awakened life within her. Yet her heart was bound, entangled in sin she didn't know how to escape.

"Oh, God..." Her voice broke as she began to sob. The emptiness expanded inside her, taking hold. "Please..."

Her prayer collapsed into trembling breaths. She didn't know what to ask for. She didn't know if God could hear someone like her—someone who had fallen so far.

The story of the woman caught in adultery flickered through her mind. Jesus had shown mercy. He had forgiven. He had freed her.

But why did it feel impossible for her?

Her tears flowed freely now, unrestrained. Her heart felt squeezed hollow, as if each beat hurt more than the last.

"Jesus..." she whispered, voice shaking, "P-please make a way..."

I already have.

Her eyes shot open when she heard it.

A voice—gentle, familiar, like a memory she had forgotten she remembered.

Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled.

That voice...

"...Lord?" she whispered, shutting her eyes again, desperate to hear it once more. Her heart surged, yearning, shaking within her like a storm rising in her chest. She held perfectly still, listening, waiting—

The sound came again—like the soft rush of river water mixing with the wind on the mountain slopes, strong yet tender, surrounding her.

Do not endeavor to work out a righteousness of your own before you come.

Her entire being trembled. The words pierced her chest like a blade—yet it was a wound that healed rather than destroyed. She collapsed to her knees, forehead to the floor, as the Presence of God enveloped her like a thick, warm mantle. She wept like a child—broken, undone, yet held.

ZARINNA'S GAZE swept over the wooden church building as she and Gina stepped off the tricycle. The morning air was cool, tinged with pine, and the mountains framed the sky like a quiet, unmoving witness.

"Is that it?" she asked softly, eyeing the sturdy wooden structure, weathered but full of character.

"Yup. Small, but pretty normal for a church in the province," Gina replied with a smile.

Zarinna followed her up the wooden steps, heart pounding with anticipation and fear entwined. The floorboards gleamed where they were polished smooth by years of footsteps, and sunlight filtered through small windows, playing gently across woven fabrics laid over tables and platforms.

"Wow..." Zarinna breathed. "I love the way you decorated this place, Gina." Handwoven tapis cloths—rich in deep reds, blacks, and earth tones—draped the pulpit and benches, adding warmth and heritage to the space.

"Right? One of our pastors has a grandmother who weaves these," Gina said proudly. "She'll probably be here soon. Allapo Lumnay is always early."

"I'd love to meet her," Zarinna said, eyes sparkling softly. "I've always wanted to learn how to weave."

"Oh really? Then you should ask her later. I'll introduce you."

A small, hopeful smile formed on Zarinna's lips. Since childhood she had admired the art of weaving—threads turning into beauty through patience and devotion.

"Thank you, Gina..."

People slowly streamed in, filling the room with warm greetings in soft Ilocano and Kankanaey tones. By nine, the pews were full. Zarinna discreetly searched for the elderly weaver, curiosity fluttering gently in her chest.

"Good morning!" a voice called warmly.

She turned to see a man—perhaps in his forties—extending his hand.

"G-good morning..." she replied, shaking his hand.

"Zarinna, this is Pastor Nestor," Gina introduced.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Pastor," she said.

"The pleasure is mine. I'm glad you chose to visit us today."

Zarinna only smiled, unsure what to say—still unsure of everything. But one thing was clear: she needed God. She needed to come back.

Her heart was ready.

ZARINNA SHIFTED in her seat as Pastor Nestor walked to the pulpit, Bible in his hand. Silence fell upon the room as naturally as breath, and she prepared her heart to listen to the Word of God. It had been a long time since she last truly listened to a sermon—longer still since she had felt hunger for one. But today, she was ready. She was starving.

"Gawis ay agew kendakayun am-in, kakabsat. Nay ay maragsakanak ta wadakayu esna kasin..." Pastor Nestor greeted warmly in Applai, expressing how glad he was to see them all gathered once again in the house of the Lord. The congregation answered in unison, voices rising like a gentle echo across the room.

"For a few weeks now," he began, voice steady yet heavy with emotion, "God has been placing a message in my heart that has not allowed me to rest. It has followed me into my sleep and awakened me in the night. And each time I think of it, I am moved to tears by the weight of it. There was even a moment when I pleaded with God: Lord, please—if this is not Your message, take it from me. But He did not take it away."

The room grew still—deeply, reverently still. The air felt thick, as though the Spirit Himself stood listening with them. Zarinna's breath faltered. How long had it been since the Word of God itself shifted the air around her like this? Since the voice of a servant of God carried such weight—not because of eloquence, but because of anointing?

Her heart stirred with quiet praise. Thank You, Lord... thank You for allowing me to hear You again.

"Brethren," Pastor Nestor continued, stepping closer to the pulpit's edge, "I will speak plainly. Many of us come here every week—smiling... dressed in our best... yet carrying burdens we have refused to surrender to God."

The words struck like a gentle but undeniable blow. Zarinna felt something inside her shift—no, wake.

"Who among you has walked an hour-long journey before?" he asked.

Nearly every hand raised.

"And who among you would willingly carry a five-kilogram sack on your back the entire time?"

Laughter rippled softly through the room.

Pastor Nestor smiled—but only briefly. Then his expression grew solemn again.

"Of course you would not carry such weight," he said quietly. "Not because you cannot—but because it would slow you down."

His gaze moved slowly across the room, meeting faces one by one.

"Today, God has one message—for you, for me, for all of us." He took in a breath. "It is time to surrender."

Zarinna's heart leaped, as if someone had reached inside her chest and taken hold of it.

"Everything that slows your walk with God—must be surrendered. There is a reason why the road to eternal life is described as narrow. On a wide road, you can carry anything you want. You may jump, crawl, dance, or drag ten bags of luggage behind you—and still walk. The road gives you space."

His voice deepened, gentle but piercing.

"But the narrow road—the road of salvation—does not make room for everything you carry. To enter... you must let go. Because if you try to pass through with your baggage, you will scrape against the walls—and you will bleed."

The words hit her like truth she had always known but never named. Her throat tightened.

"In the wide road, you can carry your sin. You can carry your hatred. You can carry your unforgiveness. You can carry your secret life, your hidden desires, your pride. And you may walk it freely." His voice rose—not harsh, but full. Weighted. Alive.

"But the road that leads to Christ does not allow it. Whether we agree or not, whether we are ready or not, we cannot keep our sin and follow Jesus. We cannot say, 'Lord, I will walk with You,' while walking a different path from the one He takes!"

"It is time to surrender, Kakabsat," he pleaded, voice soft but unwavering. "These things we cling to are the very chains that hold us back from the plans of God. Are you not tired? Are you not weary of living lukewarm—half awakened, half dead? God said He would rather we be hot or cold. For it is the lukewarm that He rejects."

Zarinna's tears finally broke free. They slipped down her cheeks without force, as naturally as breathing.

Oh, Lord... forgive me. Forgive me.

"Did you know," Pastor Nestor continued, "that the enemy has two strategies? The first is to stop you. To make you turn away from God entirely." He paused. "But when he cannot stop you—he will slow you down. Piece by piece. Weight by weight. Burden by burden."

Her heart clenched—as if every word was being spoken directly to her soul.

"So again, I say—Surrender. Your failures, your habits, your wounds, your fears. All the things you cannot change by your own strength. Because they will only make your journey harder. They will only slow you down."

Zarinna nodded—slowly, trembling—because every word was true.

"God offers peace... freedom... and rest. Jesus said: Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Do not endeavor to work out a righteousness of your own.

The words the Holy Spirit had whispered to her last night surfaced again—alive and sharp.

Musicians quietly took their places. The church wept. The Presence of God descended like a mantle.

The altar was opened.

And the congregation surged—not to perform, not to impress, but to fall.

Zarinna found herself on her knees before she could think. The floor met her hands. Her tears met the wood. Her heart broke open.

Lord... I want to be set free.

LEVI LIFTED HIS EYES, his heart overwhelmed by the Presence of God. The entire church wept—voices breaking, souls opened. The Spirit swept through the room like fire and wind.

And then—he saw the vision.

A man and a woman in tears. The woman fought to free herself, anguish on her face.

"She deserves to be set free," the Spirit whispered. "Rise."

Levi's breath trembled. His gaze fell to the woman lying on the floor before him—broken, undone, desperate.

He approached her gently, kneeling.

"Stand up, Sister," he said softly. She lifted her tear-streaked face. He extended his hand. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Zarinna..."

"Zarinna," he said, voice tender yet firm, "the Lord has declared it. It is time for you to be set free."

She broke into sobs.

"Are you ready to surrender?"

She nodded.

Levi laid his hand upon her head and prayed—deep, strong, led by the Spirit—breaking chains, calling forth the freedom purchased in Christ.

A final surge passed through his arms—

and Zarinna fell under the power of God.

"HOW DO YOU FEEL, ZARINNA?" Gina asked, arm around her shoulder.

"I-I'm okay now... Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Oh, don't be sorry," Gina laughed softly. "This is normal here. Once, someone couldn't get up for five hours when Pastor David preached. That man is really anointed."

"Who's Pastor David?" Zarinna asked, adjusting her bag.

"Oh, you'll meet him soon—if you come again?"

A smile bloomed—gentle, genuine.

"Yes. I'll come again."

Gina squealed and hugged her. "I'm so glad, Zarinna!"

"Call me Rinna, okay?" she repeated, smiling.

"Oka—"

"Gina!"

They turned. Joshua stood at the door, breathless—eyes wet.

"Please... come to the Pastoral House."

"What's wrong?"

"I-it's Pastor Levi..."

Silence fell like a weight.

Gina's heart dropped.

"ALRIGHT, CLASS," David said, closing his lecture. Students rustled as they packed up. He reached the door when his phone vibrated.

"Pastor Nestor" flashed on the screen.

He answered.

"Hello, David?"

"Yes, Pastor. What is it?"

The pause was heavy.

"It's Pastor Levi," Nestor said quietly. "The Lord has now claimed him."

David froze. His chest tightened.

"...When?"

"Yesterday. After the service. He said he was going to rest. And... he did."

David's breath wavered. Pain swelled.

"I know he was like a father to you," Nestor continued. "And before he fell ill, he already chose you to take his place."

David shut his eyes, heart trembling.

"I... I know, Pastor. May the Lord's will be done."

"Amen. We grieve—but we rejoice too. He is with the Lord now."

David lowered the phone slowly, staring ahead, feeling as though the world had shifted around him.

Oh Lord... whatever You will... may it be done.