Episode 12: Still, Small, Voice.
Leala sat in her dimly lit home, the walls suffused with religious paintings and scriptures that seemed to watch her every move. The room was enveloped in the flickering glow of candlelight, casting shadows that danced ominously in the corners, creating an atmosphere that was both warm and unsettling. Outside, the wind whipped through the trees, and the sun set with a fiery blaze of orange and pink, spilling its colors violently through the windows.
The sole sound within the room was the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick resonating like a thunderous drumbeat, punctuating the oppressive silence.
Leala was engulfed by the quietude, ensnared in a battle with her swirling thoughts about the world beyond her sanctuary. She was ensnared in a cruel paradox; fulfilling her duties with precision yet drowning in a profound isolation. In the past, the Lord's presence had been her sanctuary, a comforting embrace that shielded her from despair. Now, she felt imprisoned in a soulless routine that echoed with emptiness, as though her spirit had been anesthetized. Everything seemed to have shifted violently. It was as if the intimate connection with the divine had been severed, leaving her adrift and questioning what transgression could have caused this sacred bond to rupture. "Why can't I feel him anymore?" she demanded of herself, her thoughts a tumultuous storm as she desperately searched her soul, grappling to uncover why the Holy Ghost had forsaken her.
Leala's hands were clasped with a vice-like grip in her lap, her fingers twisting and writhing as she battled with her tumultuous thoughts. The fabric of her dress was a mere whisper against her skin, unnoticed amidst the chaos of her mind.
In this moment, Leala stood as a solitary figure, straining under the crushing weight of her obligations and the void left by a once-vivid deity. The turmoil etched into her features was palpable, her jaw set in rigid determination, her brow deeply furrowed, as she reached for answers that evaded her grasp like ethereal smoke.
She could still feel it: His presence, once a roaring blaze in her bones, now reduced to smoldering embers buried beneath an icy void. Memories of His nearness flashed before her like brilliant lightning—moments when the Lord’s spirit hovered over her heart, effortless and fierce. Now, though, uncertainty had sunk its claws into her mind, gnawing at her faith until it bled questions: Should she pray through the night? Force her spirit into deeper devotion? Or chase the lost and offer them comfort until her own hunger for God was sated? None of it felt enough. All that remained was the desperate ache to know Him again.
Shadows pressed in on her from every corner, coiling around her limbs until each breath felt stolen. She was faithful—she’d believed with every fiber of her being—but the terror of being abandoned in this encroaching darkness haunted her like a relentless specter. She longed to bask once more in His radiant light, to feel that sharp, searing assurance that once cut through all her fear.
In her mind’s eye she stood trembling before a throne of fire, voice cracked as she pled for mercy. She didn’t know what sin had driven Him away—what hidden fracture in her soul had severed their bond—but she vowed to scour every shadow of her heart to find the fault. She would cling to confession, tear down her pride, sacrifice her every pretense—anything to taste His presence again. For she knew that only through the Savior’s broken body and spilled blood could mercy rise like a phoenix, igniting her soul with pardon.
Yet doubt thundered in her mind: Was she even worth saving? Did her feeble acts matter in the vast expanse of His kingdom? Had she unwittingly earned His wrath? Each question echoed like rolling thunder, stirring an unnameable dread that wrapped her spirit in a suffocating shroud. Emptiness swelled within her chest, paralyzing her tongue, her hands, her very will. For the first time, she felt utterly lost—adrift in a night so absolute she couldn’t even see her own fear.
Dim hymns fluttered at the edge of her consciousness, ghostly melodies half-swallowed by the gloom. A voice boomed behind her—low as thunder—challenging her worthiness, dredging up every moment of wavering faith. She remembered once resting in the calm certainty of His gaze, the peace that fell over her like gentle rain. Now there was only this cavernous void, a chill that numbed her blood and tethered her to the nothingness closing in.
She stood alone in a wasteland of despair, darkness seething around her like a living thing, eager to devour every sliver of hope. All she craved was the warmth of God’s light—but terror and doubt strangled her prayers before they could rise. And so she stood, trembling on the brink, desperate, haunted, and utterly undone.
She closed her eyes, and the room seemed to expand around her, filled with the soft hum of silence. The cool air brushed against her skin, and she struck a match with a quick flick of her wrist. The sulfur scent briefly punctuated the air, sharp and familiar, before she brought the flame to the wick of a candle. The flame flickered gently, casting a warm, golden glow that danced on the walls like delicate shadows performing a waltz. As she closed her eyes once more, the room continued to grow in her mind’s eye, a wave of tranquility washing over her, settling her racing thoughts.
The candle’s steady flame illuminated the peaceful atmosphere, its light weaving patterns across the room's textured wallpaper, casting a serene glow over her surroundings. The walls seemed to sway with the flickering light, bringing a sense of comfort, much like a mother’s gentle embrace, filling her with serenity.
As she sat there, her body relaxed into the cushioned armchair, the silence wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, its weight reassuring and gentle. Her breathing slowed, and a serene whisper of peace settled in her heart, like the soft murmur of a distant stream, bringing with it a quiet assurance. In that tranquil moment, she realized that the presence of the Lord was constant, a subtle, steady comfort rather than a thunderous declaration.
She had often looked for grand, overwhelming signs of divine intervention—a flash of lightning, a booming voice—and had overlooked the subtlety with which the Lord often moved. Now, with newfound humility, she understood that the divine did not always manifest in grand gestures. Like the candle's steady flame—bright yet silent—the Lord's presence was a guiding light, illuminating her path without fanfare. This realization anchored her, like a ship finding its mooring, revealing that her prayers had been answered in gentle ways she hadn't anticipated.
Comfort and peace washed over her, reassuring her that she was never alone. She understood that she hadn't displeased the Lord; rather, He was showing her His presence in quiet, unassuming ways, always by her side.
The room was a cocoon of hushed stillness, punctuated only by the faint sizzle of sulfur and the gentle flicker of the candle's golden light. In this tranquil bubble, Leala felt the subtle yet constant presence of the Lord, guiding her with a steady hand and reassuring her with a quiet assurance. The realization settled deeply, like a seed planted in fertile soil, promising growth and understanding.
