The lights dim, and for a moment, the world stills. My fingers

tighten around the microphone, slick with nerves, but I force

myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The silence is thick, heavy,

alive. Then the first chord rings out-a single, trembling note

that rises like a prayer-and I open my mouth to sing.

At first, the sound is small. Tentative. A wisp of breath carried

on faith alone. But then it grows, expanding through my chest,

filling the sanctuary.

"You are holy, holy..."

The words slip from my lips, soft as dawn breaking, and

suddenly, I'm not just singing. I'm surrendering.

The wooden pews blur. The stained-glass windows stretch

high above me, casting fractured colors across bowed heads,

clasped hands. I see the congregation swaying, eyes closed, lost

in worship. Some are crying. Some are whispering the words

with me, barely breathing. And then-then I feel it.

The presence.