And these signs shall follow them that believe; in My Name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues;
They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
Mark 16:17-18

Johanna
"Hold on tight, Anna..." I heard Melchour say as he started the motorcycle.

"I–uh... I'm fine," I replied with a nervous laugh. "There's something back here I can hold on to, so I guess this will do."

"Anna," his voice was firmer now, yet still kind, "I'd feel much more at ease if you held on to me. We never know what could happen on the road—it's better to be safe."

He had a point. And I knew he was only thinking of my safety. But the thought of wrapping my arms around his waist for the next hour and a half? My heart was already fluttering just imagining it. Lord, how do I even handle this kind of situation?

But the low rumble of the engine coming to life told me I didn't have much time to think. I took a deep breath.

"A-alright then..."

With hesitation, my hands reached forward—trembling ever so slightly—as I gently wrapped my arms around him. The scent of his shirt carried the soft fragrance of fabric conditioner, fresh and comforting... and dangerously disarming. Oh heavens... how am I supposed to keep my heart still when things like this keep happening?

"Are you ready?" his voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

"Yes, I am," I managed to say, barely above the hum of the engine.

I caught the hint of a smile on his face just before the motorcycle began to move. The wind rushed against us as we hit the main road, tousling my hair and sending a chill down my spine.

Lord... please... steady my heart. I want to focus on You

Rebeccah
The church grounds buzzed with urgency—folding tables being pulled into place, chairs wiped down, the scent of rice and fried chicken slipping through the open windows of the kitchen. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I checked the last speaker cable near the entrance. Everything had to go smoothly. It wasn't every day we had Pastor Melchour coming.

The hum of a motorcycle broke through the noise. I straightened and shaded my eyes. The sun was lowering, casting that golden filter over everything. A bike turned the bend, cutting through dust. A man and a woman—he was driving, she clung just close enough for safety, but something in the way she let go before the bike even stopped told me she was still figuring him out.

His foot hit the ground. She followed behind him, not too close, her eyes scanning the church like she'd just arrived at something sacred and unfamiliar.

As they stepped forward, I met them halfway.

"Hey! You made it," I greeted, reaching out. "Who's your companion, Pastor?"

Melchour's handshake was firm, as usual, but his glance flickered quickly toward her before he answered.

"This is Johanna. She's one of the new worship leaders from the main church. Pastor Ryan couldn't make it—his wife had a fall earlier today."

I paused. "Oh no... she okay?"

He nodded. "I called him on the way. Minor injury to her arm, nothing too serious."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Glad to hear that." I turned to the young woman. Her posture was composed, but her eyes moved like she was cataloging every detail—quiet, watchful.

I offered a hand. "I'm Rebeccah. It's good to have you here."

Her smile formed quickly, sincere but restrained. She shook my hand lightly. "The front of the church... it's beautiful."

"Oh!" I chuckled. "That's all the youth ministry. I just supervise and pretend I'm needed."

Her gaze swept the garlands, the lights, the cloth-draped tables. "They did well," she murmured.

I found myself liking her already.

"So..." I shifted, "I'm guessing that since Pastor Ryan couldn't come, you'll be leading worship?"

She nodded, adjusting the strap of her small bag.

"Perfect. The musicians are waiting inside. You've got a good hour left before we begin."

"Thanks," she said, almost more to herself than to me.

Pastor Melchour looked down at her for a moment longer than usual. "I'll catch you later, Anna," he said softly.

"See you," she replied, eyes flicking up to him briefly before turning her focus back to me.

We began walking toward the church.

Behind us, I heard his footsteps retreating, and something about the silence between their last exchange tugged at the corners of my smile.

She didn't say much, but the way she moved—measured and aware, yet somehow soft—carried something rare. And the way he looked at her?

Let's just say, if Clara had been standing where I was, she wouldn't have missed it either.

But for now, I let the thought dissolve. We had a service to run—and something told me tonight would be anything but ordinary.

Johanna
"For anybody who wants to receive the anointing of the Lord; come, come to the altar... catch the fire of the Holy Ghost!" Melchour's voice echoed across the room, filling the sanctuary with urgency and power. Even the walls seemed to reverberate with the call. Around me, sobs erupted—cries of longing rising above the steady rhythm of the musicians who were still playing.

I kept singing, yet even in my song, I felt the atmosphere shift. The Presence of the Lord... it was thick, almost tangible. I watched through blurred vision as people began to fall back under the weight of His glory, responding to the Spirit moving through Melchour.

Something inside me stirred—deep, aching. A hunger. I wanted more. Not just to be near this Presence but to be a vessel of it. To be used by God like that.

Then I saw her. A woman slowly making her way to the front—her steps strained, leaning heavily on crutches. Her tears fell freely, and yet she kept moving, one step after another, until she reached the altar. I quieted my singing just enough to hear Melchour's voice rise in prayer as he laid hands on her.

The woman began to shiver as he prayed—trembling, sobbing. Her whole body swayed like a flame being caught in the wind. I could feel the air change again.

Then... the sound of metal hitting the floor.

My heart jumped. Her crutches—both of them—had fallen. But she... she didn't.

I froze, unable to look away as she stood there. Upright. On her own.

My lips parted as I watched her take one slow, deliberate step. Then another. And then she began to walk. Not stumbling. Walking.

Tears gushed down my face before I even realized I was crying. I could barely breathe as I saw her break into a laugh—pure, joyous—her face radiant as the entire church erupted in praise.

"Jesus..." I whispered, hands raised, voice cracking, overwhelmed by the holiness of it all.

The shouting grew louder. Adoration, awe, reverence all mixed into one mighty sound. And yet, even through the roar, I could hear the quietest cry from my own heart:

I want more, Lord. Please... I want more

Melchour
"Johanna..." I called gently, and she turned around at once. Her hair, slightly tousled from the wind, framed her face in a way that caught the light just right. "Thank you, for being willing to support me tonight."

That smile—warm and honest—curved onto her face again, the kind that makes you pause for a moment just to take it in.

There was something about her that became even more radiant at night. Maybe it was the way her eyes softened under the moonlight, or how her quiet confidence seemed to glow after being used by God. I wasn't sure. But I knew one thing—my fascination with her wasn't fleeting.

I turned toward the motorcycle, fishing the keys from my pocket, when a familiar voice met us.

"Oh! So glad you guys were back safely!"

I turned and saw Pastor Fernando walking toward us, his usual lively energy written all over his face.

"Yes, Pastor, praise God. The service went well—His grace and the efforts of the church made it all possible."

He nodded with a relieved smile, then reached for my hand. I shook his firmly.

"Well, glory to God for that! By the way..." His voice dropped just slightly as he glanced between Johanna and me, "How are you and your lady here?"

I blinked. Did I just hear that right?

Beside me, Johanna jerked her head up, clearly startled.

"Huh?" she asked, her voice soft but sharp with surprise.

Pastor Fernando laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "The lady, I mean. Forgive this old man—my tongue is killing me! Must've sensed something coming." He winked before backing away. "Well! I guess I need to get going now. You two should head inside—Marina and Trina are doing some stuff in there."

I stood there for a second, scratching the back of my head. What in the world just happened?

"Ow-kay..." I muttered, trying not to overthink it. "Well! Have a wonderful night, Pastor!"

"Likewise, son!" he called, already walking off into the night.

"Manung..."

I turned toward Johanna again at the sound of her voice. She rubbed her arms slightly and glanced toward the door.

"Let's get inside. It's quite cold out here..."

"Of course..." I replied quickly, noticing how she shivered just slightly. I reached for my jacket without thinking and offered it to her. "Here, use this for a while. Wouldn't want to see you catch a cold."

She looked down at the jacket in my hand and for a moment, didn't move. Her eyes lingered on it—soft, unreadable.

"Oh," she breathed, her fingers brushing mine as she finally reached out. "O-okay."

As she slipped it over her shoulders, I caught a whiff of her scent—floral, delicate. I took a breath and looked away before my heart could get ahead of me.

One thing was certain though—something was changing between us. And whatever it was... I needed to bring it before the Lord.

Johanna
The moment we stepped into the Pastoral House, the light murmur of voices grew clearer—Pastor Marina and Trina, laughing over something, busy at work. Probably finalizing details for next week's anniversary. The warm smell of brewed coffee lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the sound of paper rustling and distant clinking of cups.

"Oh hey, there you two are!" Pastor Marina's arms opened as she pulled us both into a brief hug. Her voice always carried a motherly warmth that made even the most exhausted heart feel at home. "How was the service?"

"It was successful, glory to God," Melchour answered, his tone bright. "We even had the privilege of seeing God heal a woman who couldn't walk all her life!"

My heart swelled again at the memory. That moment... the way her crutches clattered to the floor, the look on her face as she stepped forward—freely, finally—it was burned into my soul.

"Wow, really? Amazing!" Pastor Trina joined us, eyes wide with excitement. "You have to tell us all about it!"

"Let me guess," Pastor Marina teased, nudging Melchour, "it was you whom God used again this time, wasn't it?"

A modest smile tugged at his lips. "It was all because of God, Pastor... I couldn't have done anything without Him."

"Well, doesn't He always," she said with a gentle laugh, patting his back.

We moved toward the couch. My body ached from the long travel, but my spirit still buzzed from the atmosphere we had just come from. I tucked the moment in my memory like a sacred keepsake—one I'd revisit often.

"Oh, before I forget," Pastor Trina turned to me, "you're staying here tonight, right? I already prepared some extra clothes for you—they're in the bathroom. Go ahead and freshen up."

Relief washed over me. I hadn't even thought about what I'd sleep in. For a moment there, I thought I'd have to curl up in my church dress.

"Thank you so much, Pastor. I really appreciate it." I smiled, placing my bag on the couch before heading to the bathroom.

As soon as the door shut behind me, I exhaled deeply and kicked off my shoes. My feet were screaming. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—windblown hair, tired eyes, but a strange kind of joy radiated beneath it all. I let the water cool my face and then slipped into the fresh clothes. The softness of the fabric against my skin felt like a hug.

When I returned, the living room had transformed slightly—Trina and Marina were pulling out long skirts from one of the cabinets, both laughing as they held them up to each other.

"Johanna," Pastor Marina called, motioning for me to come over, "as you've probably heard, next Sunday is our church anniversary, and there'll be lots of presentations—from the outreach churches, and from us here, too."

She held out a deep-colored skirt toward me. I took it with care, fingers brushing over the embroidered patterns. "The women here will be doing a tambourine dance piece," she added. "Would you like to join us?"

"Oh—I'd love to, Pastor," I said, a little unsure, "but I don't know a thing about tambourine dancing..."

"No worries," she replied, brushing it off with a wave. "You'll pick it up. We've got the whole week to teach you."

Pastor Trina chimed in, "Oh, and the dress code for the worship team is ethnic attire. Do you have your own tapis, or would you like to borrow from the others?"

A grin spread across my face before I could stop it. "I actually have my own. Thank you. I've got that part covered."

They smiled back, clearly pleased. I clutched the skirt closer to my chest, heart full.

My culture was something I'd always carried with pride—and now, being able to reflect it in worship, alongside women of faith, felt like more than just participation. It felt like coming home.

This week was going to be something special. I could feel it.