WebNovels

Chapter 20 - Chapter Twenty: The Strings of Reverence

It was one of those quiet nights again—the kind that wrapped itself around me like a soft blanket but still carried a hint of coldness that went beyond the skin. I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at my phone, half-exhausted yet unwilling to sleep.

Dan's message still lingered in my mind. "Let's meet soon, like old times," he said. Simple words, yet they struck deeper than expected. It was as if the moment I read them, something heavy within me loosened. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was longing. Or maybe, just the ache of remembering a simpler version of myself—the version that smiled more, prayed more, believed more.

"Like old times, huh?" I whispered to myself, the corners of my lips curving faintly. "If only time was as kind as memories."

My phone buzzed again—Dan replying with his usual teasing flair.

Dan: "You still owe me a lunch, Ms. Guitar Girl."

Me: "Lunch? More like years of stories you missed."

Dan: "Then we better eat somewhere that doesn't close early."

I chuckled softly. That was Dan—playful but always with heart. The kind of friend who appeared in fragments of time, yet always felt like he never left.

As I continued deleting old videos to free up space, a thumbnail froze me. My thumb hovered over it—a blurred image of a stage, a microphone stand, and the faint outline of a drum set. My heart instantly knew what it was before the sound even played.

I tapped it open.

The video began shaky, laughter in the background. Then came the faint sound of the electric guitar—my guitar. My younger self stood there, strumming nervously, eyes focused but heart full. Brother Ed sat at the drums, his steady rhythm blending with the joyful noise around us.

Then, from the background, familiar voices began singing: Mama Janine's warm alto, Tita Nhe Lovely and Nhe Julie's harmonies, and Papa Mario's bass voice anchoring it all.

"Salamat, salamat, O Hesus…"

The song filled my small rented room like incense. I closed my eyes, letting the memory sweep through me—the echo of praise, the rhythm of devotion, the unspoken unity of faith.

I smiled faintly. "Wow… it's been years."

The me in the video looked different—not just younger, but lighter. There was a glow that no filter could recreate. I watched as my fingers moved across the strings, remembering how music once felt like breathing, how every strum was a form of prayer.

Then a voice in the video interrupted my thoughts.

Mama Janine (in the video): "Sige, anak, louder! Feel the message!"

Me (laughing): "Ma, baka sumabog 'yung mic sa boses ko!"

Brother Ed: "Hayaan mo, may anointing 'yan! Tunog lang malakas, pero puso 'yan!"

Everyone laughed, and even through the screen, it felt like a sanctuary again.

I sighed deeply as the video ended. "I miss this… I really do."

The room was quiet, save for the hum of the fan. I looked around at the things that now defined adulthood—an unmade bed, a laundry basket, a to-do list half-finished. When did I trade melodies for meetings? When did worship turn into work?

I pulled open the drawer where my ukulele rested, untouched for months. Its strings were slightly rusted, but when I strummed it, the sound still resonated—a bit off-tune, yet honest. Just like me.

Aunt Josephine (from the next room): "Noira, you're still awake? It's almost midnight!"

Me: "Yeah, can't sleep. Just… trying to remember something."

Aunt Josephine: "Remember? Or trying to forget?"

Her voice was teasing, but there was truth in it. I paused before answering.

Me: "Maybe both."

She chuckled softly and left me be.

I tuned the ukulele carefully, plucking each string with gentle patience until the sound aligned. When I finally strummed the first few chords of "Broken Vessels" by Hillsong, my eyes welled.

"...All these pieces, broken and scattered…"

My voice cracked on the first line, fragile but sincere. It wasn't about hitting the notes right—it was about feeling the words again. The words I once sang not for performance, but for surrender.

And for a brief moment, the years between me and that ministry faded away.

I could almost hear Brother Ed again, counting beats.

Brother Ed (in memory): "One, two, three—feel it, not just play it!"

Me: "I'm trying! My fingers are shaking."

Brother Ed: "Then let your heart play. The fingers will follow."

Even then, his words carried a truth I didn't fully grasp until now.

I continued to play, softly singing each line. Tears blurred my vision as my voice grew steadier. "...Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…"

When the final chord faded, I sat still, holding the ukulele against my chest. Silence followed, but it wasn't empty—it was sacred.

Me (whispering): "Maybe I'm still meant to play… not just for others, but for Him."

I laid the ukulele beside me and took out my old notebook—the one I used for writing lyrics and devotionals. The pages smelled of old ink and faint perfume, the scent of old mornings and younger dreams.

"Let's see…" I murmured, flipping through. Some pages had unfinished lyrics, others had verses copied from Psalms.

One stood out:

'In stillness, I found You. In chaos, You found me.'

I traced those words with my fingertips. "I really did write this?" I laughed softly. "How did I forget that version of me?"

I began writing again, this time slower, not for perfection but for peace.

As I scribbled, my phone buzzed again. It was Noah.

Noah: "Still awake?"

Me: "Yeah. Just writing."

Noah: "About what?"

Me: "About grace, I think."

Noah: "Then write me in. I could use some."

I smiled at the screen, shaking my head.

Me: "You'll just tease me again."

Noah: "Maybe. But even I miss hearing you play."

Me: "You remember?"

Noah: "Of course. You'd play even when you were sad. That's how I knew you were healing."

His message lingered longer than I expected. Maybe he was right. Maybe music wasn't just an escape—it was the bridge that kept me whole.

By the time the clock struck 1:00 AM, I was already deep in reflection. The past—college, ministry, family, even old heartbreaks—they didn't feel so distant anymore. They were all pieces of me, scattered yet connected by the same thread: purpose.

I turned off my phone and whispered a prayer.

Me: "Lord, I don't know how to balance it all—being a mother, a worker, a believer—but thank You for never letting me drift too far."

A faint warmth spread through me. Not joy exactly, but peace. The kind that doesn't need words.

Before the night ended, I opened my laptop and reviewed my ebook draft. There were typos, sure, and awkward lines—but it was mine. Every sentence felt more alive after tonight, as if rediscovering faith had breathed into it.

I typed one last line before saving the file:

"Even broken vessels can still carry light."

And maybe, just maybe, I still could.

---

A melody rediscovered, a faith rekindled — and the quiet reminder that even in silence, grace still sings.

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