The Gospel Radio Host
"Sister Vivian has hosted the Sunday morning gospel show for twenty years. When a new station manager starts listening to more than the music, she discovers blessings come in unexpected forms."
WGSP 107.5 is the voice of Memphis gospel.
I'm Sister Vivian—sixty, on-air personality for twenty years. Every Sunday morning, my voice goes into homes, cars, churches waiting for service.
"The new manager wants to see you."
I've outlasted eight managers. I'm not worried.
Then I meet him.
Marcus Webb is not what I expected.
Former music executive, recently returned to faith, bought the station as a "purpose project."
"Sister Vivian." He shakes my hand firmly. "You're the reason I bought this station."
"Excuse me?"
"I've been listening for years. Your voice got me through my divorce, my mother's death, everything." His eyes are sincere. "You're a gift."
He's in the station constantly.
Learning the business, yes, but also... listening. Every Sunday, he's in the control room, watching me work.
"You don't have to be here," I tell him.
"I want to be." He adjusts a level. "Nowhere else I'd rather spend my Sunday."
Weeks become months.
Our conversations grow deeper—about faith, about life, about the strange path that brought us both here.
"Why radio?" he asks.
"Because I couldn't sing well enough for the choir." I laugh. "But I could talk about the music. About what it meant."
"You don't just talk about it. You are it."
"That's kind of you—"
"It's the truth." He moves closer. "You embody what gospel is supposed to be. Joy despite struggle. Faith despite doubt."
"And you see all that?"
"I see you." His hand touches my face. "The woman behind the voice."
"Marcus, this is inappropriate—"
"Is love inappropriate?" He doesn't back down. "Is finding someone who speaks to your soul?"
"I'm your employee—"
"You're the reason I rebuilt my life." His voice breaks. "When everything fell apart, your voice reminded me God wasn't finished with me."
The kiss happens in the recording booth.
Where I've spoken words of faith for twenty years, now receiving something I never expected.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is providence." He pulls me closer. "Let me thank you properly."
His home is elegant, peaceful.
Music everywhere—not just gospel, but everything his career touched.
"You've had quite a life," I say.
"The wrong life. Until now." He leads me to the bedroom. "Until you."
He undresses me like I'm sacred.
Every piece removed with reverence, his eyes taking in what's revealed.
"God's work," he murmurs.
"Marcus—"
"Don't argue." He kneels before me. "Let me worship."
His mouth finds me and I grip his shoulders.
Devoted, patient, learning what makes me respond. When I come, I swear I hear hymns.
"There," he says. "That's the sound I've been waiting for."
When he enters me, we're both praying.
Different prayers, maybe, but pointing the same direction.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop blessing me."
He doesn't stop.
Afterward, in his bed, he holds me.
"Marry me."
"We've been together a month—"
"I've been listening to you for ten years." He cups my face. "I know your heart, Vivian. Let me keep it."
The wedding is broadcast on WGSP.
Every listener invited, the whole city witnessing.
"To the voice that saved me," Marcus says.
"To the man who finally heard," I counter.
We kiss while gospel plays.
Some love stories are written in songs.
Some are spoken on airwaves.
And some radio hosts find that the best broadcasts are the ones you share with someone who's been listening all along.
On air.
In love.
Blessed.